The Paperback Writer
by UrbanAuthor
Summary: A publishing industry with quite the prestigious performance and the rather high expectations; TARDIS publishers if you so may call it. John Smith, a rather fastidious publisher himself. But when a brunette girl of twenty-four walks into his office on a particular Wednesday, his life suddenly suddenly takes an interest into this girl by the name of Clara Oswald. (Eleven & Clara AU)
1. Chapter 1

**_Chapter One_**

It wasn't that there _weren't_ enough people who were willing to have their book published by the TARDIS publishing industry, it's just that John Smith was a rather fastidious publisher.

In other words, he was picky.

There were certain things that he did and did not like, in the most peculiar of circumstances. It was a rather difficult challenge to get published by one such as him, but _everyone_ wanted to. He spent most of his time reading unsolicited submissions and mediocre manuscripts, to which he would usually deny any sort of publishing matter to. Saying no to many aspiring authors did cause him to have a sense of guilt trickling inside of his mind, but it still didn't have him change his mind into publishing any of their books.

He had few authors whose books he was happily obliged to publish, such as _Summer Falls, _the best-selling novel whose author was the well-known Scottish red-head Amelia Williams, who had become a close friend of John at the time. Then there was the lovely Rose Tyler with her heart-breaking romantic novel of _Doomsday_, to which many people requested a second book to, so that was her current project. Then there was John's somewhat _only _male author, Jack Hardness, whose stories straightforwardly centered action as its main charisma. Kate Stewart, author of murder mysteries and 1920's noir, and the newest edition to the little writing family, Jenny Flint, whose novels mainly focused on the humor and peculiarity of unexplained topics.

Though there were little authors that were published by the TARDIS publishing industry, it had become a very successful company. There were people all around the world that read their books, the novels claiming the title of a_ best-seller, _printing in various languages so it could gain fame even more so. After all, John chose the most captivating books to be published. When people saw the little image of a deep blue police box on the spine of a novel, also known as TARDIS publisher's beloved logo, they knew that it would be a good read.

As John sat at his desk at a precise time of ten twenty-seven in the morning on a particular Thursday, the time of which he finished reading yet _another _manuscript from an unpublished author. It was seemingly another story that he'd have to decline to, according to the process.

But this time, it was different.

This story was different.

He had actually _liked_ it.

_Defiance, _a title that stood its ground rather well. It's story focused on the agency of Star Ship Alaska, but even more so on a girl named Oswin. Sent into an asylum for technological research, captured by automaton adversaries, turned into one of them for her genius, meaning to think like them. Meeting a boy in which they intend to kill, but Oswin still finds the heart to save him, overcoming the the thoughts that she was made to think, killing herself in the process. Great novel, in all honesty.

John flipped to the author's cover letter, a page that included their name and contact information. He read her name in the fine print. _Clara Oswald._

And for the first time in quite a while, John smiled, and nodded in approval.

_Not bad, Clara Oswald._

* * *

She paced around in her room, playing with the silver ring around her middle finger, a ritual for her when she was feeling a bit apprehensive. Clara Oswald, age twenty-four, a girl who took a slight interest into writing, but never thought that she'd actually consider publishing something that rightfully belonged to her. Nina, otherwise known as her best friend since who-knows-when, made her do it.

And now look at her, a nervous wreck.

She had sent in the manuscript for her novel _Defiance _round about a month ago, along with the assurance of Nina that '_No one could deny a story like that.' _So she made Nina pay for its printing, for it was a rather long book, as well as its first-class shipping to TARDIS publishers.

_"TARDIS publishers?" Clara scoffed at her suggestion. "No way, they say it's too hard to get published from them."_

_"And you, Clara, have the potential!" Nina scoffed back, mocking her tone of voice._

After she had sent in her story, she got an email of confirmation about a week later from the industry that her novel had arrived there in one piece. It also included the statement that she'd be getting a call from the publisher in a month or so if her story was capable of being published or not, and if so, further information on meeting and such.

It had been a month already.

So for those few days in the transition of weeks to one whole month, Clara paced around the room of her flat, occasionally glancing down at her mobile phone in apprehension. In all honesty, she was terrified. They could say that they loved reading her book, or they could also say that it sucked. And though Clara was rather open to constructive criticism, simply stating that 'it sucked' was more of an insult, and besides, it was in no way professional.

Suddenly, the familiar tone of rings came from her mobile phone as it's screen lit up, the words _TARDIS Publishers_ staring at her straight in the face. (Clara had saved their number to her contact list.) She almost jumped up out of her skin from surprise, just staring blankly as the mobile phone kept ringing. After three more repetitious rings, Clara then realized that she had to answer it, so with a slightly shaky and nervous hand, she grabbed it from her bedside table, and answered the call.

"Hello?" she spoke into the phone shyly.

"Ah, yes, hello!" a voice boomed from the other end, surprising Clara even more so. "Am I speaking to Miss Clara Oswald?" the man asked.

"...yes?" Clara finally found the voice to reply.

"Ah, okay, great!" he said brightly. "This is TARDIS publishers, and we just finished reading your book, must I have the right to say that it was fantastic."

"Really...?" Clara asked, because in all honesty, she was expecting the 'it sucked' kind of conversation.

"Yes, really!" he assured her. "We'd like to schedule a time in which we could meet with you in person, and judging by your cover letter..." he trailed off for a moment, the sound of papers rustling like stiff leaves in the distance. "...you live not too far away!" he stated. "And though I rather did enjoy your book, I'd like to discuss whether it has it's potential concerning publishing and such, so I'd like for you to come to our office on February fifth, one o'clock, if that date and time works well with your schedule, that is." he said in a professional tone of voice.

Clara knew that she had nothing to do, she never really did. "Um...yeah sure, February fifth, one o'clock..." she repeated for her own sake. "That's a Wednesday, correct?"

"Yes."

"...alright, yeah, I'll be there."

"Great!" he exclaimed, his voice rather enthusiastic and seemingly optimistic. "I'll see you then, have a good day miss." he started to hang up before Clara interrupted him.

"Wait, sorry." Clara said abruptly.

"Yes?" he asked in response.

"Who am I speaking to?"

"John. John Smith." he clarified.

"Oh, alright then, thanks." Clara nodded in approval, then realizing that _thank you _sounded more professional. She then found the mental vitality to hang up from the call, then defiantly throwing her phone down violently on her bed, almost as if she was scared of the thing. She just kept pointlessly staring out her window for a few unimportant minutes of her life, trying to take in the whole conversation. _He liked it...he actually...liked it. _She breathed in and out, for it was a rather difficult thing to believe in.

After that, you could say that she danced like an idiot in triumph.

Clara then grabbed a red marker from her desk, flipping the page of her calendar and circling February fifth. The ink rebelliously sank through the paper onto the month of March, not like Clara really cared anyway.

She practically fell atop of her bed after that in exhaustion and exhilaration, all of a sudden excited for February fifth.

Maybe she should have thanked Nina for her crazy ideas.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **The response I got from the first chapter was rather surprising! xD Thank you all so much!

* * *

**_Chapter Two_**

Alarm clocks were probably the most pointless things in the world in Clara's right of mind.

Sure, they played the morning radio music and the usual gossiping radio talk shows at the right time.

They just never really seemed to wake her up.

Clara's eyes shot open as she sat up in her bed, her sight immediately directed towards the pointless alarm clock on her nightstand, reading _12:23 _in bright florescent numbers, and it all honesty, it was mocking her. She blinked at the time, willing to just fall back asleep, in which she finally realized that there was a _reason _as to why she had set her alarm clock the night before.

She mentally reprimanded herself as she threw the covers off of her, defiantly swinging her legs off of the bed and running over to her closet to get dressed. She had exactly thirty-seven minutes and twenty-seven seconds until a certain company was expecting her at their office.

Had February fifth arrived that quickly?

She pulled out a dress that she had worn countless times before and violently removed it from its hanger, having some difficulty, for had it seemed as though things just sort of lost their convenience when one was particularly trying to hurry up? That's what it looked like to Clara.

She could get dressed in a hurry.

...she _could_.

But most of the times she just chose not to.

She got dressed in a tedious amount of seven minutes and five seconds, only a thirty sum minutes left. (Clara liked to keep track of her time, it made things seem more organized that way.) She carelessly made her bed, for neatness wasn't really on her lists of concerns at the moment, and besides, no one was there to look at it. She ran up to the mirror and smoothed out her hair for the purpose of the minor vanity issues and nodded in approval of herself, for at least her hair was willing to cooperate.

Clara quickly pulled her shoes on, hopping on one foot as she attempted to pull up its zipper, only falling over in the process due to the existence of her horrible balance. She sighed to herself, wanting to fall asleep right then and there on the carpet, only to be reminded by the rather hostile numbers defiantly glowing on the face of her alarm clock. _12: 32. _Clara moaned to herself in frustration, then deciding to try and zip up her boots while regaining some of her rest on the floor. She violently tugged at the zipper, it refusing to cooperate, for Clara loved the shoes, but in all honesty, it was a real pain in the derrière to get them on.

She stood up after a while of attempting to complete the task, then running out of her room at an instant, then sighing to herself at the fact that she forgot to turn off the light, for it was her after all that was financing the electricity.

Afterwards, she grabbed her helmet that was waiting impatiently on the counter, for she had decided to ride her motorbike rather than take the bus over there, for it was faster and, well, obnoxious passengers on public transportation was just something that Clara didn't really want to deal with at the time. She made sure that she had all of her keys and such and then out the door she ran.

Only having to run back up there again after realizing that she had forgotten to lock it.

* * *

She had managed to get there at around the right time, maybe a few minutes off, but not that bad considering the had woken up nearly thirty-seven minutes ago. The familiar logo of the blue police telephone box stood its ground on the sign for display outside of the office building, underneath it read _TARDIS Publishing Incorporation _in remarkable newspaper lettering . She imagined the types of people who had the right of an occupation to this kind of place, then realizing that she probably didn't look that professional herself, riding a motorbike and wearing a dress that she'd probably found on sale for half its original price.

Clara parked her motorbike in the parking lot, hopping off and removing her helmet, then quickly raking her fingers through her long brown hair. She looked up at the building that towered above her, for even though it wasn't skyscraper material, it was enough to make Clara feel incredibly small.

She walked in, the sliding glass doors opening, granting her an entrance, the scent of artificial air fresheners greeting her as she saw the main lobby of the building. A woman in a business suit looked up at her from the front desk, a phone receiver tucked in between her ear and her shoulder, her hands shuffling through papers like playing cards. She motioned for Clara to approach her, in which she did as she was told.

After a few minutes of somewhat business related discussion, she finally put the phone receiver down, adjusting the position of its spiral cord so it wouldn't get in the way of her paperwork. "Ah, okay, yes." she started, looking up at Clara. "Hello there, good afternoon, how may I help you?" she spoke in a sophisticated yet rather friendly tone of voice, much to Clara's relief.

"Um, yeah, I have a meeting with the publisher at this time, John Smith I believe?" Clara asked, her eyes looking around the place.

"Name please?" the woman asked.

"Clara Oswald."

The lady then typed in a few things on her computer screen, her hands typing rather quickly. "Ah, yes, here you are, right on time." she smiled up at her client, then standing up and smoothing out her skirt. "Donna! Fill in for me for a moment." she called out to the small room behind her guarded by a door.

"Alright, be there in a mo!" a particular voice said from behind the door, slacking the usual sophistication that was expected, at least to Clara. The woman seemed rather agitated by her tone of voice, then smiling back at Clara. "Follow me." she instructed her, her heels clicking on the tiled floor as they walked up to the elevator. Clara did as she was told, politely walking behind her. She then somewhat felt a bit out of place, for she should have worn something a little more formal, but no, she held her motorbike helmet underneath her arm, casually walking with this professional business woman with neat hair and a clean manicure.

Her index finger pressed on the elevator button, the doors swiftly sliding open, then gesturing Clara to walk inside. She followed the woman's orders, the sound of friendly elevator music greeting her as she paced inside. The woman then followed, pressing on a button that would eventually take them to the fifth floor. The doors closed in front of them as Clara could feel the elevator rising.

"So you got a call from John then I presume?" she asked all of a sudden.

"Um, yeah." Clara nodded in reply.

The woman laughed lightly. "I'm the one to usually call, but he wanted to do it himself this time."

Clara smiled back at her in response.

"What's your name?" Clara asked.

"Emma Grayling." the woman smiled back at her.

"Right, Emma, suppose you might have some...oh I don't know...advice, before we get there?" Clara admitted.

"Oh, I'm not so sure if there's much to say in all honesty, other than a good luck." He tone of voice made it seem as though this John Smith wasn't a very easy-going type of person.

Clara looked at her in a nervous state, and she must have noticed, because she tried to explain.

"John Smith's just rather...unpredictable that's all. And, I do say this to the many other people who travel up this elevator for the same exact reason you are, but, when it comes to writing, he can be very...in particular. He can be strict too sometimes, not to scare you or anything."

Even though Emma assured her that in no way she was trying to frighten the girl, she still did. "...do many people travel back down this elevator successful then?" she asked.

That was when Emma smiled at her in sympathy. "Sadly, no." she shook her head. "He might say he likes it, but then when it comes to publishing concerns, it's a whole other thing to deal with." she admitted looking up at the bland ceiling. "I don't know what goes on in his head sometimes."

Clara nodded slowly, then turning to face the front.

"Are you nervous?" Emma asked as the doors to the elevator opened.

"...kind of, yeah." Clara admitted.

Emma laughed lightly at her response. "That's what everyone says."

* * *

Emma led Clara down the corridor, then arriving at a door at the end of the long hallway. She lightly rapped it a few times before opening it, only to a small extent in which she could peek her head through. "John, she's here to see you."

Emma then nodded in approval as she motioned for Clara to walk in, holding the door open for her. She nervously walked in as she heard the door close behind her, and she knew that this was it. She would either take this interview meeting thing as nonchalantly and politely as possible, _or _she could make an idiot of herself. It was rather unpredictable.

She looked up at the office that surrounded her, for it was an office that she'd certainly hadn't expected. The walls were painted a blinding shade of blue, covered in picture frames of places, random things, and the occasional supernova and space nebula. But what surprised her even more so was the man sitting at the desk up front. He hair was almost gravitational, his chin certainly eccentric, and the bow tie in his collar was just another addition to the weird things that Clara saw. _For one seemingly strict publisher he's sure got one hell of an appearance. _Clara thought to herself.

"You ride a motorbike?" was the first thing he said to her, much to Clara's surprise.

"Yeah, I do." Clara nodded in reply, looking down at the helmet tucked underneath her arm.

"Never met someone who would come to an interview like that before." he noted.

"Is that a bad thing?" Clara asked.

"No, it's just different. You're different."

Clara shyly looked down at her boots that took her a hell of a long time to get on and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear that rebelliously tried to get in the way of her vision. She wasn't exactly sure if that was supposed to be taken as a compliment or just an observation, and it seemed almost embarrassing to Clara if she took it a flattering statement on herself.

"Please, sit down." he insisted, indicating towards the white leather couch that was placed neatly in front of his desk. Clara did as she was told, smoothing out her dress as she did so. "Glass of water on the table, if you like." he offered, Clara glancing over to the small side table standing beside the couch, a glass of water with a lemon slice on it's rim waiting patiently on a silver coaster.

"Oh, um...thanks." Clara said quietly, taking cold the glass into her tiny hands, taking a sip. She then realized that she hadn't eaten, which was a minor concern, considering that she had a pretty strong stomach. She continued to drink from her glass as John continued.

"Just a few questions to get to know you better Miss Oswald-"

"You can call me Clara." she smiled shyly at him.

He nodded in approval. "Alright then, Clara. What's your occupation as of now? If you have one, which I presume you do."

Clara placed the glass back on its coaster. "I play piano for this restaurant every evening, nothing much." she waved it off. "Surprisingly well pay, I mean, the manager is generous enough, along with the amount of tips I suppose." she shrugged. She was surprised at how much she got payed for just playing piano for an easy hour and a half, and still managed to pay the rent with ease.

_Restaurant pianist...interesting._

"How long have you been playing piano?" he asked her.

"Since I was four." she smiled back at him.

"Anything else you've been doing to pass the time?"

Clara bit her bottom lip, almost as if she wasn't sure whether this was a professional question or a personal one. "...baking soufflés?"

He laughed lightly in admiration of her response. "Soufflés?" he somewhat repeated to himself.

Clara nodded timidly.

He smiled back at her. "And if you became a best-selling author, what would you do will all that money?"

Clara sighed, for in all honesty she had the slightest idea. "I don't know...I've always wanted my own red grand piano, so maybe I'll start with that." she laughed lightly, reaching for her glass of water.

He laughed. "Well I suppose you'll be getting that piano very soon then." he smiled at Clara. "You're book was a very impressive, and I believe that it has its potential. I'll be more than happy to publish it."

Clara nearly choked on her water. She coughed a little bit, her mind in a state of pure shock. The glass two-thirds empty was carefully placed back on its coaster so she wouldn't spill it all over the expensive leather couch from the disbelief and surprise. "R-Really...?" she stuttered, still recovering from the lack of air getting into her lungs. She really hadn't expected that.

"Yes, course." he flashed a small smile in her direction. "I'll send it to the next department to get edited, that is, if you're willing to do the paperwork." he admitted, for the paperwork was rather tedious, and just listening to Amelia complain about it made him feel as if it was something everyone would rather avoid. (Such as how Amelia would just skip reading the terms and agreements entirely and just sign.)

"I...um..." Clara was at a loss for words. "Yes, yeah, I mean...paperwork's fine." she nodded her head in agreement. Her voice was weak from shock and the fact that water was unexpectedly shoved down her throat.

He smiled at her. "Great." he stacked a few papers to the millennium's worth of documents located neatly in the boxes in the corner of the room. "I can assure you Clara, that with a book like this, the response will not disappoint you."


	3. Chapter 3

**_Chapter Three_**

He hadn't met a girl like her; awkward yet surprisingly personable soufflé baking motorbike rebel restaurant pianist by the name of Clara Oswald. Something told him that she certainly wasn't expecting the things that she had really heard, and he couldn't really describe her reaction to it other than surprised.

He hadn't seen surprise in a while.

Clara's unexpected height difference for a twenty-four year old surprised him as well.

She seemed rather shy, almost delicate, but what did appearance have anything to do with that? He could tell by the way she looked at him, how her eyes gave a few petty strange yet attentive glances towards his rather peculiar apparel, but then again, everyone did that.

He really didn't know much about her.

He suggested that he'd change that.

* * *

Ever since she'd graduated from university and got her own job as a restaurant entertainment pianist, Clara had figured that she'd have to categorize her finances for certain purposes, basically the 'grown-up responsibilities' that all adults was eventually faced with, and must she say, she dreaded it. Paying rent for her flat every month and managing her money on food (Forty-five percent of which consisted of ramen noodles and fast food.) _wasn't_ exactly the things that she wanted to revolve around her life. _Who in their right mind _would want that?

So on the first week of every month, she'd dedicated a small portion of her money towards buying a book_. __A _book._  
_

Clara squinted at the book on the fifth shelf at the book store, one who's title caught her attention. _Chasing an Infinity _by Kate Stewart, a book in which she hadn't found the time to consider reading yet, it's tiny little blue police box looking down at her from the book's spine. She sighed up at the book that seemed so far away, but just staring at her in the face. She just wasn't tall enough to reach it, that's all. Clara had always been a rather petite girl, and that sometimes did cause difficulties.

The fingertips of her left hand barely grazed the book's spine as her fingers struggled to remove it from the tall shelf, but as she was starting to make some progress, the book decided to slip out of her hand and fall on her head instead. The book's corner of it's hardcover rammed into her left temple, causing a rather unexpected pain to surge through her skull. Clara's hand was immediately raised to somewhat comfort her temporarily injured head, the book that had fallen laying open and sprawled on the carpet below her boots. _Ow. _Was the only thing that came to her mind. She really wasn't too fond of hardcover books from then on. _  
_

Her left temple red but slackening on it's pain, Clara carefully bent down and picked up the book into her small hands. She then looked back up at the shelf that stood in front of her, hugging the book to her chest, staring at the ones that she just didn't have the chance to read.

_Someday, the book I wrote might be on this shelf. _She considered to herself, a rather unusual thought at the least. One day, people other than herself will be reading the kinds of things that go on in her head, the words that were written to make sense, the sentences that made their own little world of its own.

Then Clara laughed to herself.

_Someday, I'm probably going to get hit in the head with my own book._

* * *

She used to hate taking piano lessons.

Until she heard the pieces that were actually worth playing.

Her fingers tapped on each key carefully as she played, the music echoing off of the restaurant walls, a rather unusual yet pleasing sound resulting from it, and really, that's all Clara's job was to it. It didn't even seem as if her mind was doing anything but listening, for it seemed as if her hands had a mind of its own. She was playing Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, first movement only, for she had only learned that part of the overall fifteen minute piece.

_"Are you sure you want to play this?" Her piano instructor, Mrs. Aloi, had told her in hesitation, looking at the notes in doubt. "Some of these notes, when played together, are at least an octave apart from one another, and your hands are rather small." _

She was fifteen at the time, at quite a rebellious state at the least.

_Clara just squinted up at her piano instructor, for she was having none of it. "Yes, I'm sure." she reassured her. She didn't care if her hands were too small or if some of the notes were an octave apart from one another, she just wanted to learn._

After many attempts to play each note at the same time and as smoothly as her piano instructor would have, Clara finally managed to play Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata First Movement with ease, all memorized and permanently fixed inside her mind like common sense rules. She'd play it whenever she didn't have anything else to play, and in this case, it was one of those times.

The song had been haunting her like a ghost for the past nine years of her life, and she didn't mind.

As her hands were playing, Clara observed the atmosphere of complicated soup concoctions and lightly drizzled salad plates that was the restaurant that which she worked in. _Tasse de Soupe_, quaint French fine dining restaurant with rather impressive reviews and polite and rather pleasing service. Clara played at it's grand piano every night from seven o'clock to eight (Accepting tips you might also add.) Her eyes scanned the room as waiters bustled around lifting trays with ease and carrying five plates at a time, the sound of wine glasses clinking and small conversation with sophisticated laughter that sounded just a bit too conspicuous.

She eased the weight of her foot on the damper pedal of the piano, a small portion of people willing to applaud, much to her surprise, even though it happened almost every night. People heading out left a few tips in the tiny stationary box that Clara had left there specifically for that purpose, thanking them for helping her pay her flat rent. (Well, she didn't actually say that, but that was the main cause.)

"Clara!" Astrid called over the few people talking, standing at the nearby waiting area and front desk, replacing a few menus with the rest. With her free hand, she motioned for her to come over, to which Clara did at her request.

"Yes?" Clara asked.

"Sorry to interrupt, Clara," she smiled apologetically. Astrid Peth was a feisty twenty-three year-old, short curly blonde hair only an addition to her distinctive appearance. She didn't favor being a waitress as much as one would expect, but it helped her pay rent as any other job would, and besides, she liked talking with Clara at times in which she could. "Mrs. Angelo just wanted to ask if you were working on Valentine's Day, she does wish that you will." she sighed.

Mrs. Angelo was the owner of the place, nice little elderly lady, surprisingly good-looking grandson, not like Clara paid any attention to that.

"Yeah, I'll be here." Clara admitted promptly while instinctively straightening the business cards to it's equal prepositions and turning the potted plant on the desk ever so slightly to the right. (It sometimes annoyed her when things were the tiniest bit out of place.)

Astrid raised an eyebrow at her response. "Really? You don't have plans or anything?"

Clara shook her head calmly. "No."

"In all the time I've known you, I'd at least expect you to have a boyfriend or something." she admitted. Clara only laughed. "Wait, do you?" she asked for a reassurance.

"No, I don't." Clara admitted, not like she was ashamed of it or anything.

Astrid, however, looked surprised. "Well why don't you?"

Clara smiled at her. "Oh, I don't know. I just haven't really...thought about it I guess." Astrid didn't know about Clara's publishing ordeals, and she was trying to keep it that way until things got formally finalized and such before people began blurting it out to every being within their ten-foot radius. (Clara wasn't sure on whether to take that as sarcasm or if that was what were really going to happen.)

Clara had never really put much thought into having a particular _interest_ into another person, for it just had seemed as something that she shouldn't worry about, for there were much better things that deserved her attention towards. She had publishing matters to deal with, for one, and her job was the only thing that distanced herself from being practically homeless and starving for the past couple years, so it seemed as if she really didn't have time to think about those kinds of things.

Either that, or she was just ignoring it.


	4. Chapter 4

**_Chapter Four_**

Clara noticed how people (Especially people in current stable relationships.) were rather bubbly on that particular Friday, along with the fact that there were hearts every square inch the eye could see. _Oh, must be Valentine's Day already. _Clara nonchalantly told herself, for there wasn't really a difference for her between the somewhat romantic holiday and any other day. Not to seem as if Clara was a killjoy or anything, it's just that she thought that a day partially dedicated to cheap pieces of paper that said things that wouldn't really have an impact on society was somewhat pointless.

_"It's a day to show that you really love the messed-up people in this world." Nina said with sarcasm, trying to emphasize her point._

_Clara just stared at her in slight confusion. "Shouldn't you do that every day?" _

She had made sure to arrive at work a little extra early to make sure that the piano was set up and ready by seven o'clock. As Clara shuffled through her piano binder to see what she was going to play (All arranged in alphabetical order), Mrs. Angelo approached her, an unusually exuberant smile on her face. "Clara, happy Valentine's day!" she greeted with enthusiasm, hugging her lightly, Clara staying a bit stiff, standing awkwardly in her embrace. "Oh, I'm so glad that you could come to work today, you'll surely please the customers, especially on a day like this." she sighed in content. "I do apologize if your working hours interrupted anyth-"

"Oh no, it's fine. I really didn't have any plans for today." Clara interrupted, shaking her head.

Mrs. Angelo, for one, simply raised an eyebrow in surprise. "My, I'm sure you would darling, it's Valentine's Day!" she exclaimed in protest. "I'm sure you would have someone special." she smiled warmly.

"Of course I do, Mrs. Angelo, just...not in _that _way." Clara laughed lightly.

"Oh, but look at you Clara!" she insisted. "Pretty, smart-"

"Nah." Clara smiled back at her.

"...well." Mrs. Angelo finally said, smiling back. "I hope you have a wonderful evening regardless, and I can assure you, won't be long until you meet somebody that catches your eye." she winked as she paced up to the front doors to greet customers. Clara stood silent for a few moments, not sure if she should really take that into consideration. She stared at the people, most of them in pairs of two, black ties and dresses. Clara shook her head, for she rather disliked getting lost into her own thoughts.

She rolled up the sleeves of her soft white sweater and smoothed out her floral crimson dress as she sat down on the creaking piano bench, staring at the notes before her. She had always seen music notes and signs as a different language, and when you thought about it, it really was. Staccato bursts when making a point, demanding attention, and pedal marks, wanting to remember the notes played before, almost like an echo. Rests like stop sighs, repeat signs leading you back to the beginning to retrace your steps. Clara found it rather extraordinary.

_"When choosing a piano piece, it has to fit you, like a dress." _Mrs. Aloi told her on her first day of lessons. Clara wasn't into much of tarantella, she found than rather too fast, but she took a liking into sonatas and other slow pieces. She soon understood what she meant by that. Everyone has a different type of interest, some much rather prefer playing at seventy-five miles an hour with impressive dexterity, and others (Much like Clara) liked sedate types of music.

Her hands played a piece by the title of _River Flows in You _by Yiruma, her left hand playing slowly, yet her right climbing up keys like some sort of unusual arachnid. (That probably wasn't the most pleasing way to describe it.) That's what she loved most about it, how two different things could sound so beautiful together. She had learned it last summer, practicing until an unknown hour in the morning on her little electronic piano, making sure to turn the volume down so that the neighbor's wouldn't complain, but it was a nice song anyway, so what did it mater?

She played song after song, then afterwords, she heard applause after the next. She felt happy and pleased that other people enjoyed listening to her. At nearly eight o'clock, she saw Abigail come in through the front door, greeting the hostess and a few other people she happened to know. Abigail Pettigrew was a rather impressive démodé chanteuse, for she enjoyed singing songs from main icons and other immortal songs that everyone with common sense recognized. She performed every Friday after Clara, but usually she wasn't willing to stay another hour.

She knew that she'd have enough time for some sort of denouement, so she hurriedly flipped through her binder to find something decent to play. Her eyes finally caught their attention onto _Serenade _by Franz Schubert, a song that was undeniably beautiful, but just not played enough. Clara finally decided on playing it, her hands resting on the correct keys, a small moment of respite before Clara carefully started to play the first measure. Her eyes scanned the first few lines with ease, patently remembering it in her head, for it only took her a few measures to get used to it again.

But as Clara continued on with her piece, she noticed something in the corner of her eye. She didn't dare to move her head to the right, she wasn't one to get sidetracked, but it pulled at her attention slowly as Clara's eyes met a man sitting at a table for two, yet, alone. He was hunched over a stack of papers, the rim of his reading glasses visible in her view. It took her a while until she actually realized who it was. _John. _Clara just kept staring at him, her mind on something else but her hands centered on playing, for she was grateful to have the capability of multi-tasking.

Song fading into echos left by a sustain pedal, she heard the petty sounds of clapping, the unimportant revelry pushed to the back of her mind. Her eyes were fixed onto him, he almost seemed out of place. She didn't know why; maybe it was because he was one of the only people seated by himself, or maybe because she just hadn't gotten used to his unorthodox choice of clothing yet.

Unexpectedly, Abigail approached her and to Clara's surprise, started talking to her.

"Hi Clara." she smiled. "You played beautifully tonight."

Clara shook her head, trying to break out of her thoughts, focusing her attention onto the girl in front of her. "Oh, yeah, thanks." Clara replied, smiling timidly back at her.

"Are you staying perhaps?" Abigail asked, hoping that for once Clara could hear her perform a bit.

Clara bit her bottom lip, and then glanced over at John, who was still preoccupied with whatever he was reading. "...yeah, I think I'll stay." she nodded her head in slight approval of herself, for she had at least decided to say a hello, for it looked as if he needed one. Abigail beamed at her response as Clara collected her music sheets together and placed them neatly into her binder, snapping the rings shut. She waved goodbye to her as she made her way past waiters and customers over to his table. She then stood quietly behind him as she just watched him for a few seconds, his back to her, Clara hugging the binder to her chest, wondering if she should even say anything at all.

"Expecting someone?" she finally found the courage to ask, John almost jumping out of his chair from surprise, turning around to meet the eyes of the girl in front of him.

"Oh, hello Clara." he smiled timidly at her. "Uh...no, I'm afraid not."

"Well it certainly doesn't seem like you're eating much," Clara said, glancing a look towards the tea cup barely touched and sitting impatiently on its saucer. "Then why are you here?" Clara asked.

"Oh, I don't know, it's a nice place, and besides, I need to finish reading this." he indicated towards the stack of papers in front of him, another manuscript that he was in the middle of.

"So you're alone?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

Clara raised her eyebrows at his response. "Well then, I'll guess I have to join you." She admitted, pulling out the chair opposite of his and casually allowing herself to sit down, placing her binder underneath her chair. John took this as a minor surprise, and for a few moments, just sort of stared at her.

"...so you work here?" he finally asked.

Clara nodded.

"You play rather well."

"Thanks...I guess." Clara smiled at him, looking down at the lace place mat that lay patiently in front of her. "What are you reading?" she asked curiously, eying the papers in front of him.

"Another manuscript," he waved it off, but Clara was rather interested.

"...can I read it?" she suddenly asked. He took this as an unexpected gesture, as for he just stared at her for a few moments, for it was a request that had never really been asked to him before, but it wouldn't hurt though, a plausible and minor concern he presumed. So he slowly shuffled though the papers and pulled out the first few pages of the book and handed them to her, Clara smiling in reply. She looked at the first few sentences, her eyes scanning each line, reading them carefully.

_I didn't like to imagine myself as a widow, nor did I enjoy calling myself one. Not because it had a despondent meaning or that I didn't want to sound too old or aged, it's just that it simply wasn't true.  
_

_He'd been fighting the war for far too long, my husband, up to the point in which they couldn't even keep track of his whereabouts anymore. Disappeared, that's what they described him as, and then they immediately started to conclude that I was a widow even though they had no evidence of whether his heart was still beating or not, hell, they didn't know where he was! _

_My children had been starting to ask if he is to come home soon or not, and I kept assuring them that he will. _

_I really do hate lying._

_And yet another holiday was to be passed, alone, just the three of us. Or so it had seemed._

_For there was this man, this peculiar, clever, idiotic man who came along and flipped my perspective of the world to infinities that I never even knew were there. _

"It's rather impressive, I'm considering it." John said, flipping over to the next page as he continued reading. Clara just slowly nodded in reply, her eyes fixed onto the cover page that lay by itself on the clean white tablecloth. She read the name printed at the top. _Madge Arwell. _Clara wanted to read more, her eyes skimming down the page. This book, painted with hints of slight tragedy yet staccato detonations of sheer humor, was rather peculiar and it caught her attention without even trying. She liked it.

"What do you look for in a good book?" Clara asked quietly, a question that was never really answered, only because it was never asked. He had actually never taken the matter into his consideration, for it was simple; either he liked it, or he didn't. He didn't find it as complicated as some might think, for all of the stories that he had published were different from one another.

Or so it may seem.

Clara had noticed something minor in all of the books published by TARDIS, something that all of them had in common, yet it was just one of those things that's definition couldn't be expressed through words, but it was something that just seemed so _obvious, _and Clara just couldn't quite figure it out exactly, but it irked her. Counterparts, that was what she called them, and she wanted to know what could simplify all the books to one main idea, the one thing that made John like them so much.

He didn't know either.

"I'm not so sure if there's a particular answer for you there, Clara." he replied.

_Oh, well then. _Clara thought to herself. _No worries; I'll find out myself...eventually.  
_

She then eyed John's bow-tie suspiciously, for something irked her about that too.

It wasn't that it was just plain weird to wear one on a daily basis (Though it was), it's just that it seemed almost...off. Clara didn't like it when things were off, it would annoy her at most times, which would eventually sometimes annoy her friends too in the process. She slightly tilted her head to the right, inspecting the fabric tied around his neck, tucked underneath the collar nicely, yet just a little bit out of place and proportion. _Aha. _A mental hand snapped its fingers in realization as Clara soon became aware of the fact that she couldn't stand it when things were crooked, hell, maybe even smiles; she didn't know for sure.

"Something wrong?" he asked her, for she was sure looking at him weird for the past two minutes or so.

Clara shook her head sharply. "Fix it."

"Fix what?"

"Your _bow-tie_." she replied as if it were so blatantly obvious.

He tried to look down at his collar, then noticing that from one's perspective you couldn't really get a good look at your own bow-tie. "Why does it bother you if my bow-tie is crooked or not?" he asked, for he wasn't trying to be rude, he was just curious.

"I don't know it just sort of sticks out like a...big chin." she glared at the bow-tie even more in dismay.

"Oi, what are you saying about my-" he started, then stopping mid-sentence to somewhat defend his eccentric facial features.

Clara stifled a laugh. "_You're _the one who decided to take that as an insult, not me." she assured him. John huffed in response, cordially adjusting the piece of fabric around his neck, much to Clara's relief. In fact, there were many things that Clara could tease at about his appearance, such as his gravitational space hair, or his eyebrows, for goodness sake, and maybe even the ungainly way he would flap his hands around for emphasis when speaking. (But it did make its point) Clara was rather thankful for her ability to keep her mouth shut. She smiled at him in amusement as he attempted to overlook himself in tension, as if she would only playfully insult him even more. Clara laughed.

"So, John Smith," Clara clicked her tongue at his name. "Tell me about yourself." she smiled.

"Is there anything important you need to know?" he asked.

"Well, I could either read your Wikipedia page or you could tell me yourself for once, whichever one sounds better." She eyed him curiously, for he was her technical boss after all, better to know him personally than to keep staring at him from a distance and just searching the rest on the Internet. It made her remember that John Smith was a wealthy entrepreneur, he was well-known, he was the publisher of many august bestsellers, and _he had his own Wikipedia page. _(That's all it took for one to be titled as distinctive.)

"You're different, you know that Clara Oswald?" he asked her.

Clara only smirked in reply. "My specialty."

* * *

**A/N: **In all honesty, I don't have a defined schedule for this story, so just check once every few days for an update. :)

Also, the two songs I mentioned in this chapter, _River Flows In You _by Yiruma, and _Serenade _by Franz Schubert, they're both beautiful piano pieces, definitely worth a listen if you haven't done so already. :D


	5. Chapter 5

_**Chapter Five**_

John Smith was a mad man. He could probably tell that she already knew it for that matter by the way she would nod a bit apprehensively and raise her eyebrow at all the unusual things that he said about studies of catastrophic supernovas, which told Clara that this guy was quite the science brainiac. With the kind of stuff that just rambled on in his head, at a first glance, Clara would've at least expected him to be some sort of lab technician from a blockbuster 1980's movie. Clara just made the supposition that he had one hell of an interest for science fiction, a supposition that spoke its reasons clearly for itself. She'd never expected to get so far as business related concerns discussed between her and John, but that night, a Friday in which everyone had seemed somewhat preoccupied, there were two.

Two seemingly unimportant human beings living their ordinary human being lives on a particular set of twenty-four hours global citizens call Valentine's Day. And the particular romantic holiday having the slightest bit of impact on them, mainly because they found nothing to celebrate about. It wasn't a bad thing, in all honesty it was tranquil, but really, they had each other.

Clara and John.

Seven days and a number of hours later, Clara found herself writing again, something a little more personal, something that she'd never consider showing to anyone but herself, and, maybe her mother if she were still alive. She repetitiously clicked her pen; it had become her unhealthy habit, one that eventually had become her friends' pet peeves mainly due to her. Clara was one of those kinds of people who could look at a retrospective glance at something and a web of propositions and objectives would just appear in her mind like accusations in an episode of _Sherlock. _It's just how she was. And albeit that way of finding ideas, Clara had three main principals when it came to getting some form of inspiration: musical compositions, words that sounded pretty, and John Green novels. (Clara was one hell of a crier when it came to The Fault in Our Stars.)

Clara glanced over at the stack of books that were already read and memorized word by word sitting quietly on her desk table, and on top, sat rather impatiently a stapled bunch of papers that Clara needed to turn in. Publishing issues, what else? Clara looked at her alarm clock on the opposite side of her room, for it wouldn't hurt to take a visit to TARDIS publishers at the time. Clara closed her notebook and clicked her pen closed, dropping it into the Starbucks plastic coffee cup that served as a pencil container. She grabbed the stack of contracts and such from her desk, for she could drop them off with Emma and then go out to eat for the night, something along those lines.

* * *

"Here you go Emma, John just wanted me to fill these out." Clara politely handed them to the TARDIS secretary, exchanging a friendly formal glance with her. "Oh, yeah, another thing, do you happen to know where the restrooms are?" Clara asked, for the purpose of her minor vanity issues. Emma pointed her pen she was writing with to her left.

"Down the hallway, to your right, just after the copy machine."

"Thanks." Clara replied as her boots walked down the hallway, for she had never really gotten to know the place. She looked around at the white walls that seemed to close in on her, picture frames outlining the paintings of cities that Clara had always wanted to visit. Clara glanced at them and smiled a bit; she had always wanted to travel.

Clara turned the next corner and ran into someone else, Clara squealing in slight surprise as a pair of hands held her shoulders still from falling. Clara looked up to see John's familiar face, and Clara smiled in slight relief to know that it was just him. "Hi...um, sorry." Clara laughed lightly, backing away from his grasp, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

"Don't worry." he smiled back at her. "Were you-?" he asked, gesturing towards the restroom doors.

"Yeah."

"Oh, alright."

Clara smiled back in response."Oh, yeah, I turned in those papers you wanted me to fill out. Emma has them."

"Alright, great." he gave her a thumbs up.

Clara made her way past him to push open the restroom door, then happening to bring up another question. "Do you need anything else?" she asked curiously, wanting to make sure.

John simply shook his head. "Ah, nah, nothing really." he responded, but there was just one thing that he had wanted to ask her, but was unsure of whether to bring it up at the time. "But... I was just wondering... do you, maybe want to make plans for dinner sometime?" he asked cautiously, wondering if he should've just kept his mouth shut. It wasn't in that way if that's what you think, he just wanted to, you know, maybe get to know this new writer of his a little better.

Clara took it as a surprise, for no one, not really at least, had _ever _asked her out to dinner. Maybe her aunt or Nina or something, but never really a _boy_. "Um...yeah sure, just...when?" she asked.

"Whenever, really." John replied nervously.

"I have nothing to do tonight." Clara noted, wondering if he'd take her suggestion.

John was taken by surprise, for it was just something that he had taken as a minor concern, but he didn't think it'd be _that _soon. "Yeah, sure, why not? I'll pay."

Clara shook her head in objection. "No, you can't do that, I can pay."

"No really, I asked you."

"And I agreed to paying for myself."

"I'm offering a perfectly free dinner here, you know you want to take it." John cocked an eyebrow, much to Clara's amusement. She giggled.

"Fine, whatever." she shook her head. "Take me wherever you like." she added, pushing open the restroom door and heading inside. John smiled to himself. Been a while since he'd asked a girl out, much rather her actually agreeing to it.

But it wasn't a date, not to him at least.

Clara didn't realize what she had just agreed to do. She stared at herself in the mirror, wondering if she was the kind of person to just easily agree to impromptu dates with her publishing boss. _It's not a date, just...dinner. _She reassured herself, a reassurance that questioned itself. Clara was old enough, she could make her own decisions, Clara reminded that to herself, but, it was just something that she wasn't used to. _Eh, what the hell, at least I get a free dinner. _Clara thought to herself.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: ****Been a while since an actual author's note, eh? :) Nice little fluffy chapter for you all. **

**Thank you for everyone who's been reading as well, I do appreciate your support on this story. I've got some big plans for it! I'm going to try and update every weekend...hopefully. xD :)**

* * *

_**Chapter Six**_

She stared his sports car that waited patiently in the parking lot, its silver paint job reflecting off the blinding sun, much to Clara's annoyance. It was a nice car and all; not exactly new, but still enough for Clara to find it impressive. All she had was a motorbike. "I call him Handles." John said sheepishly, smiling a bit with a shrug of his shoulders. Clara giggled in amusement. She didn't have her motorbike with her at the time, decided to take the bus unexpectedly, yet John seemed more than happy to give her a ride. He opened the door for her as she climbed into the passenger seat, more than grateful that John was one to keep his car clean. He sat down in the seat next to her and gave her a slightly shy grin. "So, where do you want to go?" he asked her.

Clara stared straight ahead. "I...don't know." she admitted.

John thought for a moment, his hands gripping the steering wheel loosely. He was one to always have some sort of backup plan in case someone didn't have one, and in this case it came in handy. "Okay." he finally said, putting the car into ignition.

"Where are we going?" Clara asked.

John kept his eyes straight ahead, unwilling to respond, for he liked to keep his plans a surprise. "Somewhere." he replied nonchalantly, turning the wheel ever so slightly to pull out onto the main road.

She looked out the window, for sometimes, plans just had to be accepted without actually knowing what they were. "Doctor-" Clara started then stopping mid-sentence in surprise. She didn't know why she had called him that, she hadn't meant it. While writing her book, Clara couldn't come up with a decent name for the male protagonist, so she had just called him _The Doctor_. He wasn't even a doctor, not medically speaking, but Clara just thought it fit. "Sorry..." she tried to laugh it off lightly. "Writing just sort of gets into my head sometimes." she admitted.

John only laughed lightly in response. "It's alright." he reassured her. "You can call me Doctor if you like."

"But why?"

"Do you know how many people in the world are named John Smith?" he asked her, laughing to himself, his eyes on the road in front of him. "Besides, I like The Doctor, great character of yours; really badass if you ask me." Clara laughed, leaning her head on the cold window.

"Thanks." Clara whispered, wondering if he'd hear.

"It can be a little inside joke."

Clara smiled. "Alright." she finally said, looking at the cars and buildings that passed by, chasing the roads that would eventually lead back to where they stared. _Chasing the roads that would eventually lead back to where they started. _Clara repeated this in her head a few times. It sounded nice. She'd have to write it down. "What's it like," Clara started, playing with the little silver ring on her middle finger. "To deny so many people who want to become somebody who's name will be recognized?" she asked him quietly, observing the street lamps that passed by.

"I don't deny the people, I deny what they write." The Doctor replied, taking a moment to take a good look at her.

Clara raised her eyebrows. _Impressive. _She thought. "Touché." she smiled, to which he smiled back at her. She turned back to face forward as she thought about it. Out of all the people The Doctor could have chosen, out of the several attempts to become published, The Doctor chose Clara, and she hadn't even intended it to be that way. It reminded her of a little someone named Primrose for a moment there, Suzanne Collins books were honestly brilliant. She smiled to herself. Literary connections. She loved them.

* * *

Eating panini in a bookstore with her publishing boss wasn't exactly Clara's ideal plans for that evening, yet she found a way to accept it as it was. He sat across from her, sipping a coffee, something that Clara didn't think people would drink for dinner. She eyed him carefully as she took a bite, thinking about how weird the word _panini _sounded. Clara was rather impressed with The Doctor's taste. She then took a good look at him for the first time, and noticed that for once, he wasn't working. It was weird. "Clara," he started, and she looked up to meet his eyes. "If you like, we can work together on editing the manuscript, I mean, if you want to." he said, and Clara noticed that he was stuttering. She smiled back.

"Yeah, sure." she replied. She realized that The Doctor did so much of the work himself, editing, reading; she wondered how the hell he managed to finish. It stressed her when thinking about it. "...you do most of the work yourself?" Clara asked. He nodded slightly in response. "Don't you ever get tired of it?" It seemed as if all he ever did was read.

"Maybe, I don't know." he replied, looking down at the table. "Never really thought about it as work I guess."

Clara nodded slowly, even though she couldn't really picture it.

The Doctor perked up after a while, as if he was remembering something important. "Oh yeah, we're having a birthday party for Rose next Saturday, I was wondering if you could come...?" The Doctor asked in a way that didn't seem pretentious, yet Clara still half-choked on her panini. She had a tendency of doing that. It just sounded so... _normal _coming from his mouth, and it just seemed like the strangest thing. "Rose...Tyler?" Clara asked, more than surprised.

"...yeah." The Doctor smiled.

Clara nodded slowly, trying to take everything in. To The Doctor, Rose Tyler was an everyday friend. To Clara, Rose Tyler was a literary genius with the power to crush the human soul. She was practically brilliant. The Doctor gave her a hopeful smile, which at that point she shook her head, snapping out of her thought. "Oh, uh...yeah, I, um, sure...I can...come." now she was the one to stutter. "I...where is it?"

"My house, I can text you the address..." He trailed off, taking out his phone. Clara breathed in, attempting to stay calm. _Rose...Tyler._ _Okay. _She thought to herself, trying to seem it as an ordinary incident. She smiled a bit in spite of herself. "...call me your plus-one?" Clara shrugged her shoulders, to which he gave her a shy look. Clara giggled.

She imagined the type of people, specifically authors, she had a chance of seeing, _meeting _even, and hell, talking to them was certainly out of the question, at least to Clara. But then she noticed something. All of these authors, of the people whom she had _never _thought she'd be in a hundred foot radius of, with an oncoming book of hers, she was going to be one of them sooner or later.

It was a peculiar thought at the least.


	7. Chapter 7

_**Chapter Seven**_

The alert sound of ringing disturbed Clara's current state of peaceful sleep, much to her disruption and exasperation; she wondered what kind of person would be calling her at 2:46 in the morning. She sat up in her bed, a bit groggy, and glanced over at her mobile phone slightly shaking from the vibration on her bedside table. Clara groaned, hesitantly waiting before answering the call, the sudden light from the screen putting her in a temporary blind state. "Clara?" a familiar feminine voice asked on the other line. It was Nina.

"Nina, what the hell are you doing calling me at nearly three in the morning?" Clara sighed, rather agitated. She loved Nina, honestly, but sometimes she could be certainly tiresome, along with her bizarre requests.

There was a slight moment's respite after Clara had asked, almost as if Nina was waiting for Clara to settle down a bit. "...okay, so I _kind _of left my flat keys in the counter drawer at work, so I was wondering if I could just stay at your place?" Nina asked. She was a waitress at a twenty-four hour diner, and she worked the late night shift because she was practically nocturnal. Her explanation didn't seem as convincing.

"Then why don't you just drive your lazy butt back to work and get them?" Clara said, a sense of aggravation in her stomach and her mind pleading itself to shut down.

"...well, see, the thing is, I'm kind of already _at_ your front doorstep." Nina admitted. Clara rolled her eyes, for she wasn't exactly expecting herself to have a flatmate for the night.

"Fine; I'll be there." Clara gave in, hanging up on her. Nina was one to just drop in on her friends at random periods of time in their lives, something that Clara found rather unusual, but that's just Nina. She was a great friend, Clara had met her at university, and she was just one to be naturally funny and uplifting. It was so _easy_ to get mad at her, yet it was just _too _easy to forgive her all the same. And although Nina really could be a pain in the derrière sometimes, Clara liked her that way. People chose their friends because they like that person's particular persona; and Clara thought that there was no point in trying to change that. There was something about Nina, something peculiar, but eccentric.

"So," Nina started, taking in a big gulp of milk from her glass. "What happened?" she grinned at Clara.

It took her a moment to realize what she was talking about. "Oh, the book-?" Nina nodded in reply. Clara gave her a look that told Nina that she wasn't exactly sure. "They...they said that they liked it." she admitted, much to Nina's approval. She urged her to continue. Clara looked up at the ceiling, unsure of a way to describe it without it sounding horribly pretentious. "They um...they agreed to publish it."

"Oh my gosh Clara that's _great__!_" Nina cried at a sudden, standing up to hug Clara tightly, knocking over her glass of milk in the process. She then pulled away hesitantly, looking at the wet kitchen table. "...sorry, I'll clean that up." she said in barely a whisper, smiling as a way of reassurance. Clara shook her head.

"So, what's next?" Nina said excitedly as she tore off a few paper towels from the roll on the counter.

"I don't know...just...waiting I suppose." Clara admitted, watching her clean off the milk rather quickly. Waitress skills. Clara seriously lacked them. "He said that we could work on the manuscript together to get started on editing-" Clara attempted to continue, but the sudden stare coming from Nina's eyes told her that she had heard something out of context.

"..._he_...?" Nina asked rather suspiciously, the word certainly seeming conspicuous.

_Shoot. _

Clara attempted to explain, for if she didn't give at least a decent reason as to why he had brought in a male character into the conversation, she'd never hear the end of it. "Um, yeah, _he_ as in John...Smith." Clara shook her head abruptly. "He's the...publisher, editor...person." Clara attempted to shake it off in the most nonchalant way possible, but Nina wasn't letting the matter go so easily.

"Young at all? Good looking?" Nina raised her eyebrow, all of a sudden interested.

Clara didn't want to admit, and she wasn't one to lie either. She hesitantly gave a shrug of her shoulders, though nodding a bit in reply. "Yeah, young. And not bad when it comes to good looking, has one _hell _of a chin though." she looked up to the ceiling, as if it were to help her cope and somehow decipher The Doctor's unfathomable chin. Nina smirked.

"Ooh, so Clara's got a gentleman friend now does she?" Nina teased, a wad of soppy paper towels in her hand.

"Shut up." Clara laughed lightly, playfully punching her in the arm. "He's just my boss, basically." she said, trying to deny and sort or form of platonic relationship. Nina nodded, still certainly unconvinced.

"Alright, but if anything _does _happen to occur between you two, must I say that I won't be the slightest bit surprised." Nina grinned. Clara smiled in objection to her assumptions, rolling her eyes.

Clara then glanced at the clock that was slowly ticking on her kitchen wall. _3:11. _"Look Nina, I really want to go back to sleep, think you'll able to keep yourself busy?" Clara asked, placing Nina's glass in the sink to wash later.

"Yeah, sure, I'll probably just watch some Netflix on your couch or something." Nina said, already heading towards her temporary resting place for the night. She was still in her work clothes. Clara shook her head.

"Okay, night." Clara called out to her as she headed back to her room to regain some sleep. She landed on her soft pillow, sighing as she heard the theme song for Blue Bloods coming from the television.

* * *

Clara woke up hours later, wondering if Nina was passed out on the couch or off to do whatever Nina does. But albeit her friend's whereabouts, she woke up with this feeling inside of her stomach that for once in quite a long time, she wanted to bake a soufflé. It wasn't just that she craved the taste of a it; she craved the triumph of actually preparing it correctly for once. She'd always lacked the ability to master the making of the soufflé; every _single _time, something would go wrong one way or another. Her mother had used to make them for her all the time, she even got the nickname _Soufflé Girl _from her obsession with the things. She'd always wanted to make one, perfectly baked and everything, yet that just hadn't exactly happened yet.

When she toddled into the kitchen that morning, Clara noticed a stack on envelopes on the counter, a bright yellow post-it note atop all of the letters. _Got the post for you. Hope you don't mind; I was bored. _Clara stifled a small laugh, staring at Nina's handwriting in content, then realizing that she remained asleep in her living room, still wearing her work clothes, snoring on her couch. _Makes it easier for me. _Clara shrugged her shoulders slightly, a mere gesture for herself. She pushed the small stack of letters to the side, for she could read them later. She had a few baking obliges to fulfill.

She was in the middle of stirring when she got the call. Her ruby red rotary telephone rung brightly on her kitchen counter as Clara tidied herself up to answer. "Hello?" Clara replied with slight enthusiasm, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Hi, Clara! Doctor here." he said happily, much to Clara's liking.

"Hey Doctor, what's up?" Clara asked, stirring the soufflé batter a bit when a letter caught to the attention of her eye. She then bleakly attempted to open it, the phone receiver tucked in between her ear and shoulder, her tiny hands fumbling with the envelope flap, therefore leaving her in a rather uncomfortable and awkward position.

"I was just wondering, if you maybe wanted to, um, work on the manuscript this Wednesday?" The Doctor asked, maybe just a tad bit too nervous, and though it was a business related conversation, he wasn't one to ask girls things, especially girls like Clara.

"Why Wednesday?" Clara asked yet another question; a question that came out of mere curiosity.

"Because Wednesday's our day; first day we met." he replied nonchalantly, she could almost _feel _him smiling, in a way that seemed as if it would be merely affectionate. Clara smiled a bit at this, she didn't realize that The Doctor was one to look at little things like petty meetings on petty Wednesdays.

"Okay." she smiled. "Wednesdays then."

She then realized that Nina had woken up, and now was severely eying their conversation, much to Clara's surprise and yet blissful amusement. "Great!" The Doctor replied, Nina then immediately staring to walk suspiciously towards Clara.

"Alright, sorry, I, um, I have to go now, so I'll see you Wednesday, bye!" Clara managed to finish her sentence before Nina could hear, slightly banging the phone receiver back on its base as she hung up. She had always been keen for using her fast talking abilities, and usually they came in handy, for occasions such as this. Nina was beside her not too long after, staring at her as if she was expecting some sort of explanation.

"Who was that?" she asked calmly.

"Nobody."

"That was definitely somebody."

"Yes...and he was somebody you don't need to know about."

"Oh, so it was a _he_ then?" She asked suspiciously. Clara grimaced in admittance. "I'm just teasing, go on, have fun with that nice little boyfriend of yours."

"He's not my-"

"Not _yet_." Nina smiled, raising her index finger for clarification, then turning to head out the door. "I'll see you later." she smiled back at Clara.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"I don't know, someplace to ponder at the existence of being single." she replied nonchalantly, opening the front door. "Say hi to him for me." she winked, closing the door behind her. Clara laughed a bit and shook her head. Nina could tease when she wanted to, which wasn't a bad thing; she still listened when she needed to.

She glanced down at the phone laying patiently on her kitchen counter, for _Wednesdays _were to become something a little more special.


	8. Chapter 8

**_Chapter Eight_**

She sat down on the reupholster chair outside of his office, a slight uncertainty in her stomach from an unforgiving nostalgia. Clara glanced down at her shoes shyly, fumbling with the clasp on her purse and carefully taking out her _Chasing an Infinity _novel and sliding her bookmark out from her page. Her eyes glanced the words printed out along the page, her eyes sprawled out on where to start, her mind lost for a few seconds. Clara obviously didn't know why such an unfocused condition had the best of her; it just seemed as though she couldn't get herself to focus. Maybe it was because of what she was really doing; working on a story that people were eventually going to read in another language, sitting in a place where Clara knew she didn't belong to. Not yet, at least. Clara didn't know what she was doing, where all of this would lead up to, she had the slightest idea. Becoming self-aware was something that stands shocking to everyone, and Clara finally had a minute to realize that, she was getting published. Getting thrown out into a world of people, a world of enthusiasts, a world of critics. Having a chance to spend sixty percent of her free time with The Doctor, or to the rest of the world, John Smith.

The Doctor. She had the slightest clue as to who he was, what he wanted, or where he was going. All she really knew about him was that he apparently had a close relationship with reading, unexplainable science fiction, and his car, for a matter of fact. She knew that his name was John Smith, she knew that he was an authority figure of TARDIS publishers but really, who was he? Clara found it surprising enough that she really cared in the first place. Maybe it was because it seemed as though she'd already had a supposed two dates with the boy and she didn't even know his favorite color. _Dates_, such a stereotypical way of describing things. Clara never liked using the word.

The book lay on her lap, unread, Clara's mind certainly targeted towards something other than what it's pages contained. What Nina had said a few days ago, what she had said about Clara having a particular boyfriend. She was trying to figure out if what she had said was true or not, whether that could actually happen, and at the time, she couldn't see it clearly. The Doctor was nothing to her other than her boss, and Clara couldn't seem to imagine it any other way. _"Not yet." _Nina's voice rang in her ear like a bell, and it scared Clara. She'd, being admitting, had never fancied a boy; they all seemed the same to her. The Doctor, she didn't know what to do with him, where he stood; out of all things, he could be one of those boys. She wasn't sure. That's what scared her. It scared her that she had hesitated with him.

"Good book?" his voice rang in her ear, Clara turning around in surprise to see his prominent chin and gravitational hair. She smiled and carefully closed the book in response, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Yeah, I suppose so, just...I guess I can't really focus on reading in a situation like this." she shook her head slightly.

"Like what?" he asked, standing in the doorway of his office, his smile crooked as he stared at her.

"Oh, I think that would be too long of an explanation, Doctor." she smirked back.

"I got time." he admitted, leaning his shoulder on the door frame as an attempt to convince herself of such a matter.

Clara laughed, leaning her head back tiredly on the chair. "I don't know...it's just all going by so fast for me, it seemed as though just a second ago you called me up for the first time, two seconds ago I started writing my mess of words just for fun, and how you actually sought some sort of _potential _in that, when obviously I don't see it." she shook her head and laughed softly.

"You don't see yourself as a writer?" he asked.

"A good one, no." Clara admitted, sighing in content of herself. "I just took sending my mess of words as a joke I guess, never thought you'd actually like it. I know that sounds like I don't see anything in myself, and maybe I do, I don't know. I guess denying that anything good comes from me is just how I cope with things." her voice seemed to lose it's sound as she spoke, as if she was finally realizing that she seemed to deny herself a lot, which was the truth. Clara had never seen herself as some prestigious, successful twenty-four year old; she never took any compliments, she just sort of left them hanging there in thin air, where people left them, and she never took that as a bad thing. Maybe it was.

"Well, maybe that's why I'm here." he finally said.

"Why?" her voice cracked a bit as she said it, then looking down at her shoes shyly, as if she knew what he was going to say.

"To convince you."

"Of what?"

"Of every single compliment that you just don't take." he held his hand out to her, and she raised an eyebrow at his gesture. She'd never been told by someone that they were willing to try to convince her, to make her stop believing that she was never good enough. Clara had always thought that; that people were lying about her being so damned perfect at everything she did, for she knew that everyone had something imperfect about themselves, and she just thought, nothing would ever be good enough. "Where are you taking me?" she asked, smiling at him.

"Offices are just a tad bit too claustrophobic, don't you think?"

* * *

Clara's fingertips grazed the soft blades of grass underneath her, a manuscript of her story laying in her lap. Clara never really considered a park being a place to work on things like editing manuscripts, but you just suppose that people are just plain mistaken for things sometimes. "Blades of grass seem so delicate; I don't understand how they have the ability to pop balloons." Clara admitted, The Doctor laughing lightly at her saying, sitting across from her. "Airplanes seem so abundant of load; I don't understand how they hold their ability to fly." he responded in an overly quirky manner, much to Clara's amusement.

"You know, there are a lot of things we don't understand, maybe we never will, I guess that's just what's so amazing about this world. People, constantly finding things out, but still, there's an infinity of things that we don't know, not yet at least." Clara tilted her head up to the sky, the few clouds that would eventually build up to rain down. She'd probably never know why grass was green, people would say it was because of the chlorophyll, but, then again, why was chlorophyll green? She'd probably never know the meaning of life, or why people hated other people, because really, they all commit the same crimes, maybe some commit more than others, but they all do. That's what she just found so messed up about people sometimes, why hate, when we've all done something wrong?

The Doctor, however, stayed quiet, but looked at her as if to say he was listening. He looked at her as if she was some sort of mystery, to which she was, someone that The Doctor didn't know well enough to trust, and though it may sound impolite, that's just how it was. There were a million other people that he didn't trust, not because he had a particular disliking to them, because he just didn't know them. "Read it." he said simply, indicating towards the stack of papers sitting on her lap.

"Where do you want me to start?" Clara asked, pulling out a blade of grass from the dirt, rubbing it in between her thumb and index finger, then tossing it behind her shoulder with the others.

"You choose, wherever you like."

Clara enjoyed her amount of leeway she had with The Doctor. "Alright then," she responded after a while, flipping through the pages until she came to the page at which she favored reading the most. "Chapter Eleven, then."

"One of my favorites."

"Ah, is that so?" Clara raised an eyebrow and smiled. "Happy to know." she held up the first page to meet her eye level, and started reading. "I had been watching him for a few hours at the least, I couldn't really keep track considering the fact that I had a horrible ability to keep up with the time, and also that I didn't even know what at hour felt like anymore. He had been messing around with a few things in the time being, a few controls, a few robots, I wasn't exactly particular. It was like the asylum was a playground for him, how it was so easy to break off something from somewhere and just _fix _it like he was toying around. I had given him a couple of nicknames in my spare time, which I surprisingly found a tad bit entertaining considering that I had nothing other to do than bake impossible, failure soufflés. For one, I call him Chin Boy. If you got a good look at him, you'd know my motives. Then I'd call him exceptionally clever, because, well, he was. Then, lastly, I call him The Doctor, because he holds the capability to heal things. Call it a commonplace, but I personally favor calling him The Doctor the most; it's one of those things that just fit. So, being me, horribly sassy and interrogating me, and having nothing to do, I decided to say hello.

'Looking for something?' I spoke through the asylum intercom, then to be greeted by The Doctor jumping up in surprise. I stifled a laugh. He looked quite awkward when doing so.

'Who's there?' he spoke, his voice seeming dangerous, yet I could see it as comforting.

'Just a voice. Thought you seemed lonely.' I smiled to myself.

'Have a name?'

I was silent for a few moments, then remembering for the first time in a year that indeed, _I had a name_. I think it's a privilege to have a name, a title; it's like a promise you make, to commit yourself to be known to others as that one specific, and breaking that promise, well, that's just plain irreverence. '...Oswin.' I finally responded. 'You?'

'I don't exactly give my name to strangers.'

'Who says I'm a stranger?'

He smiled in one particular direction, and I smiled back. If only he could see me.

'Where are you talking from?'

'I'm somewhere...underground I think. Crashed in a shipwreck a year ago, been here since.' I admitted, shrugging my shoulders. I was surprised at how long I could withhold myself without interacting with the lines of infinite fatigue; I suppose I just haven't given much thought to it.

'A year? What have you been doing for a year?' he responded, pulling a metal pin from the doorway, inspecting it before putting it back.

'...making soufflés?' I admitted lightly.

He laughed at that. '...where do you get the milk?' he suddenly asked.

I only shrugged my shoulders. 'So, my question, why are you here? This is an asylum, you could get bloody killed-'

'Well you certainly haven't yet, so who says I can't?' he shot back playfully, and I laughed.

'No, but seriously, what are you-' I stopped mid-sentence as a file appeared on my screen. The word _ALERT _stared at me in a way that seemed almost haunting. My hand found its way to the mouse as I clicked on it in confusion, and there it stood in blinking letters of a bright and warning crimson. _PREDATOR ALERT. _I stared back at it for a few seconds, or what seemed like seconds, and I didn't know what to make of it. I didn't know what it was intending to, I sure as hell didn't know what it meant. But after what seemed as though an infinity of looking at the thing, I finally got it. I stared back at The Doctor, in my eyes, now suddenly scared."

Clara sighed and smiled back at The Doctor, _her _Doctor, glad that she could get over a mere page before cracking her voice. "I honestly don't see any good in that." she laughed, laying down on the grass. "When I was writing, I was probably half asleep and had a craving for soufflés, why, _why _do you like it? It's just such an insane and messed up story," she sighed to herself.

"What's wrong with an insane, messed up story?" he asked.

She smiled back up at him in a way to convince him that she wasn't going to answer his question. "I know, this may seem like I'm crazy, but, what's your favorite color?" she asked softly, looking up at him from her place on the grass.

"I quite like a dark shade of blue." he responded, looking up at a cloud that hovered above them. "What's yours?"

"I like red...crimson I guess." she shrugged, a blissful silence in between them for a mere minute.

"Hey, are you coming to the party this weekend...?" he asked, as if he needed a reassurance.

Clara nodded her head. "Yeah, I guess. Nothing else really to do."

He smiled. "That's great." he looked away shyly in a way that made the situation a tad bit awkward, but Clara laughed anyway. "Do you maybe want to, read more while we're at it?"

Clara smiled back. "Yeah, sure."


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: **Ahhh oh my gosh I didn't know that this chapter would be so long. xD Oh well...

Oh and yes, just to point out, the outfit that Clara's wearing in this chapter is the one from _Hide_. I love Clara's outfits, they're just fabulous. :)

* * *

**_Chapter Nine_**

She was considering growing her hair out, maybe add some bangs, a little wavy even; Clara wasn't exactly sure. But as of now, her hair seemed a bit short, shoulder length, _unbelievably _light, much to Clara's convenience and liking. She stood in front of the full length mirror attached to her closet door, patting down a few stray hairs here and there and adjusting her navy blue blazer that framed her tiny physique. Her small hands smoothed out the printed button up dress that she wore; she had no clue as to what type of apparel was expected at this certain birthday party, more particularly, _Rose Tyler's_ birthday party. It just felt sort of, unusual, to go to a birthday party when she didn't even know the girl. Well, she _knew _the girl, but, not in that way. Clara read _Doomsday_, she recognized Rose's blonde hair without a second glance, but she just didn't know her personally. Clara sighed quietly to herself as she tied the laces of her left wedge ankle boot, for she felt as if she would know practically _nobody_ there. Well, with an exception of The Doctor, which was like one percent of entire the population of the party.

Clara glanced down at the tiny box the sat beside her, and taking it into her tiny hands, she opened it. It felt rude not to get Rose Tyler at _least _something decent, as if Rose would know her anyways, at least, that's what Clara suggested. It was a tiny little silver book necklace; Clara thought it was appropriate. She smiled at it before snapping the box shut, tucking it into the inside pocket of her blazer. She stared at the wall for a few moments, thinking to herself, almost not wanting to go. But, well, she promised The Doctor that she would, and Clara was known to keep her promises, no matter how much she didn't want to. She stood up from her place on her bed and grabbed her keys from her desk, making sure to turn off the light before she head out.

* * *

You could say that first impressions meant everything to Clara, and, well, doesn't that rule apply to everyone, at least _sometimes_? She did a double take to assure herself that indeed, she had gotten the address correct, she was at the right house, this, was _The Doctor's _house. That's when the reality did hit her, the point in which she remembered that this was John Smith she was thinking about. He was a publisher, and an editor, he ran a business, which usually lead to the conclusion of: he was...a little _more _than just some source of wealth. He was opulent.

The driveway circled around a fountain, a gateway at the side of the house allowing access to guests; for goodness sake, her boss was certainly living a lavish lifestyle. _...alright then. _Clara had taken a bus over to the place, making sure that she had gotten off at the right street. Sure, she had to walk a bit, but she didn't mind. She spotted The Doctor talking to another couple at the gate's entrance, him taking a respite when he saw Clara. He waved to her, to which she waved back, him then gesturing her over. Clara smiled sheepishly, approaching him. "Hi John." Clara greeted him politely; she figured that she would be better off using his real name in front of other people, especially people she didn't know. "Hello Clara." he smiled back, giving her an unexpected hug, to which she was rather surprised. Nevertheless she hugged him back, pulling away after a while, him waving the couple goodbye as they entered a rather posh backyard. "Whoa..." Clara mumbled to herself as she took a good look at everything, The Doctor laughing in reply. She hadn't meant for him to hear.

"Some house you've got yourself here..." Clara smirked at him.

"Hah, thanks." he responded. "Hey, thanks for coming Clara, I know you're new and all and it seems persisting-"

"Oh no, it's fine." Clara reassured him. "...but yeah; it'll take a while to get used to all of it." she laughed lightly, looking down at her shoes. Some house it was compared to her quaint little flat.

"You'll be okay, just try and get to know a few people, you've got Rose you can talk to, and Amy's here too," he smiled at her as a reassurance, even though it didn't help Clara's hopes much. He spotted another person getting out of their car, to which he responded by giving them a wave. "I'll meet with you later?" he asked her, and Clara nodded and gave him a small smile in reply. She then proceeded to awkwardly turn around and head into the backyard, where it seemed as everyone had somebody to talk to. Clara sucked in her breath, for a party such as this, well, let's just say that Clara wasn't used to so many people being in one place at once. She suspected that everyone got the feeling eventually, that feeling in which corrupts when you don't know anyone, yet people are watching you and are judging you all the same.

She walked around for a bit, not wanting to seem like one intruding on other's conversations. It was surprising at how many people seemed to know each other so easily. Clara found it rather peculiar. But when she turned around, she was surprised to run into one particular red head girl whom Clara found to be very much familiar, and not in a empirical way. Clara stumbled in slight shock, using the table next to her to steady herself. "Sorry-" she apologized immediately, then looking up to see who it was.

"My bad!" the red head replied, smiling at her. "Sorry, I can be horribly clumsy." she admitted in a strong Scottish accent that Clara had clearly noticed.

"Don't worry." Clara gave a small smile back. "I can too, sometimes."

"I'm Amy." she offered Clara her hand, to which she hesitantly took.

"Amy...Williams?" Clara asked, and the girl nodded her head. "Oh, well hi!" Clara laughed lightly.

"I'm guessing that you know me then...?" Amy asked playfully, smiling at her.

"Yes, gosh, I love your writing." Clara admitted, stuffing her hands in her pockets. "I'm Clara, Clara Oswald."

"Oh, thank you!" Amy said, taking her compliment. "And you said Clara? Oswald?" she asked curiously. Clara nodded her head. Amy took a good look at her for a moment, as if she was trying to remember something that she couldn't exactly target. "You're that new author TARDIS is publishing...right?" she asked hesitantly, to which Clara nodded her head as well. "Oh yeah! Now I remember, John emailed me your first chapter, it's brilliant." she shook her head in a somewhat amazed state, to which Clara was rather amazed as well.

"Oh really? He sent that to you?" Clara asked, almost a little bit too shyly.

"Yeah, I can't wait to read the rest of it." Amy smiled brightly, and Clara smiled back. "I can see why John wanted to publish your book so quickly." she winked. Amy seemed friendly, brighter than friendly even, and Clara found it unbelievable that she was so much as _standing_ next to her. Clara had read _Summer Falls_ precisely twenty-seven times, Chapter Eleven a good forty-two, well, that's the number she remembered before she stopped counting."Hey, have you met Rose yet?" Amy asked excitedly. Clara shook her head. "Oh, come on. You're gonna love her!" Amy replied.

"Oh, I dunno-" Clara started sheepishly, not getting a chance to finish before Amy grabbed her wrist, pulling her along and through the crowd of people. "I, uh, Amy!" Clara laughed along, trying to make her way.

"Rose!" Amy called out to her, finally stopping at a nearby table. "Hey, Rose, this is Clara. You know, that new author from TARDIS?" Amy said excitedly as a familiar blonde haired girl looked at her, as if she was trying to take in just an abrupt entrance, but Amy was one to do that. Clara took a good look at Rose, for her hair was short like hers, brown eyes, like hers, and a smile that just made you want to smile too. Clara then noted that _this _was the girl that made her cry constantly whenever she took a mere glance at her book's cover. (Doomsday really incorporated the harsh emotions; everyone knows the feeling.)

"Oh, Clara, hi!" Rose said, smiling at her, standing up from her seat. A somewhat dazed girl stared back at her.

"Hello," Clara said, smiling back a bit shyly. "Happy birthday."

"Thank you! It's really nice to meet you, John's told us a lot about you." Rose laughed lightly. "He talks about you constantly."

"Really?" Clara replied, giving the two a confused look. "Well, I mean, I only met him a few weeks ago-"

"I know." Amy said, nodding her head. "_We _know." she smirked in a somewhat knowing manner. "It's rare to hear John talking about girls, so it was a hell of a lot surprising when he started talking about this brunette by the name of _Clara Oswald_." Amy smiled in her direction, the conversation between them silent for a second or two before Clara finally got the picture.

"Oh, gosh guys, no!" Clara admitted, laughing along with the two. "I-It's not like that, it's actually _far _from...that." she nodded her head, almost as if it acted as a bleak reassurance. She really couldn't picture that sort of relation with her and The Doctor, but then again she really didn't know much about the topic of 'relationships' in the first place.

Rose nodded her head as if she understood. "It's just that...John's been acting somewhat...easy going now that you've come along, and we just tease him about it."

"Like a lot," Amy added, laughing.

Clara laughed softly for a moment, doing what she had grown so used to doing, denying. "Easy going? I can picture that. But it's not because of me."

"Oh, come on." Amy grinned, nudging her.

Rose looked up at the sky, as if she were thinking. "He'd just seem so _excited_ when he'd talk about you, you know?" Rose said as if she couldn't hold it in, her smile broad.

Clara, however, couldn't do anything but blush. "I have to go use the restroom, I'll...talk to you guys later?" Clara asked, the girls nodding in reply. "Okay, it was great meeting you guys!" Clara smiled, heading towards the house.

"You too!" they both called out in unison.

As she pushed her way through all of the people there, Clara stopped by a table in which she supposed held the main purpose of displaying gifts. (Well, an estimate of fifty gift bags and twenty wrapped packages gives you a pretty clear clue, right?) So without a word, Clara looked around to to make sure that nobody was watching as she carefully took out the little box from the inside of her blazer and dropped it into a nonspecific gift bag. Nobody needed to know.

Afterwords, Clara carefully slipped inside of the house, closing the back door behind her and heaving a sigh. In all honesty, she didn't need to go to the restroom; she just needed to be alone. It wasn't that she didn't like Amy and Rose, she actually thought that she had a good chance of being friends with them, it's just that she really didn't feel like she belonged in that type of atmosphere. In an atmosphere of authors, entrepreneurs, and other opulent people sipping alcoholic beverages from flute glasses that Clara didn't feel like talking to; it seemed like she was a little girl in a crowd of adults. And being a little girl, Clara felt a strong urge to maybe explore a lavish house for once, for she certainly wouldn't get another chance, or so it had seemed.

So, pushing her back off of the door, Clara walked as many other people do, one foot in front of another. What room she currently stood in seemed along the lines of dining parlor, if she could even call it that. Wooden upholster chairs aligned the long wooden table, paintings with unknown names hung on the papered walls, and there was something unusual about everything, something that Clara couldn't exactly put her finger on. Nevertheless she continued walking and eventually came into a long hallway, the only sound she could hear were the sounds of her feet on the hard wood floor. She then spotted a doorway into a large, and _definitely _pretentious personal library. "Now that's just showing off..." Clara muttered to herself, smiling and shaking her head as she continued on.

Clara walked door after door, not even taking a first glance at each because she knew she would do nothing but stare and gape and stand there wide-eyed. After a while she eventually retreated back to the dining parlor, then noticing something different this time. In the corner of her eye, she spotted another room, one that caught her attention. As she approached it, a grand piano came into her view, it being the only thing in such an isolated room. She gave a small smile to it, tracing lines along its dust covered surface, proof that it hadn't been opened in what seemed as ages. She then carefully sat down on its bench, the wood creaking, as she delicately opened the piano to see its beautiful, pristine keys. Clara loved seeing grand pianos in miscellaneous places, and even more so she loved playing on them. She played a middle C, surprised at how it was still in tune. She smiled to herself, playing a few scales at a time. It was nice, the piano, a good dusting and all and it could be in a perfect condition.

After what it had seemed like an endless playing of scales, then followed by her debating on whether or not she should play something, taking into consideration that she scarcely saw pianos like this. She started playing _Sarabande d'Amour _by Catherine Rollin, something short yet sweet from the top of her head, and besides, she loved playing it, and it sounded even better on a grand piano rather than her little electric. The pedal was rather heavy, yet that's how all grands were, and how Clara wished she could have one of her own. The notes rolled out of the piano one after another, Clara smiling in between breaths at how pretty it sounded. It was less than two minutes when taken its time, its notes only occupying the space of two pages, in other words, it was a short piece; yet it was so lovable. When Clara played it's last note, she smiled to herself in light content.

"I had been starting to wonder where you were." The Doctor said behind her as she turned around in surprise, him smiling at her kindly. "You play beautifully."

"Thank you." Clara said softly, smiling back at him. "Do you play...?" she then proceeded to ask, wondering why he had a piano in the first place.

He shook his head in reply. "No, the piano's my mum's." he said, to which Clara nodded her head. "She died a while back; I still get it tuned though every six months, I don't know why, just seems right."

Clara looked at him, her eyes softening. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright. You're welcome to play it anytime you want."

"...thank you."

"You're welcome."

Clara looked down at the floor. "...yeah, my mum died too, when I was younger; she really taught me a lot about writing."

"She must have been a lovely woman."

Clara nodded her head slightly. "She was."

After that, a moment of blissfully awkward silence rose up in the walls of the room, more blissful than awkward. "You don't want to go outside?" The Doctor offered. Clara simply shook her head.

"No, I'm sorry, it's just that..." she trailed off, thinking to herself for a moment. "I feel like I don't belong out there, with all those types of people, you know?" she smiled at him. "And besides, I'd rather stay here, as weird as that sounds." she replied quietly, looking up at the ceiling.

"It's okay." he replied, nodding his head. "I got it." he gave her one more smile before heading out. "And Clara," he said as she turned around from the piano bench again. "I know I've said this before, and let me say it again, you're really something different, I want you to know that." he grinned at her.

She smiled back. "Thank you, Doctor." she said quietly as she saw him exit out the back door, back into the crowd of people in which she didn't know, a crowd of people that weren't like her, not yet, at least. So she turned back to the piano and started playing again from memory, her mind seeming to drift farther and farther away from where she was.

* * *

She hadn't realized that she had been sleeping. More or less, she didn't even remember that she had fallen asleep in the first place. Clara woke up with a start, becoming very much aware of the fact that she was laying down on a chaise lounge, but the thing was, it wasn't _her _chaise lounge, nor her flat. She took into her surroundings and finally realized that yes, she was still at The Doctor's house, and yes, she had probably fallen asleep while playing. In her defense, melodic tunes easily make one weary, even if their the one playing the piano (One with experience would comprehend). Her eyes immediately took interest into the watch on her wrist, the hands pointing to eleven o'clock at night. Last time she checked it was what, nine? _Had I been asleep for that long? _She thought to herself.

"I didn't know you'd be sleeping that long." The Doctor laughed lightly. He was seated at his desk on the opposite side of the room, wearing a pair of round glasses and reading a book.

"I...sorry." Clara admitted, taking notice into the baby blue blanket that lay atop of her.

"It's alright." The Doctor persisted, turning a page.

"Is the party still going on?"

"Yep."

"Well then, why aren't you out there?"

"Eh, I got kind of tired, and besides, everyone's out there getting drunk and I didn't want to join in." he remarked.

Clara laughed. "Well...if you're not doing anything, can you maybe...give me a ride home?" she asked hesitantly as he looked up from his book. He then stared at her for a moment, as if he were thinking ever so carefully, which only made Clara smile. "I don't really feel like drinking either..."

"Yeah, sure." he said after a while, closing his book and placing it at the desk beside him.

* * *

After getting into the passenger seat of Handels and watching The Doctor get in beside her was when Clara finally realized something. "Doctor...you don't have any family living with you do you?" Clara asked carefully, not wanting to sound in any way impolite. She then shook her head. "I'm sorry if that sounded rude-"

"No, it's fine." he interrupted her, a strong conviction in his voice. "But no, I don't."

_So he lives alone then. _Clara thought to herself, almost feeling a little sorry for him. "Does it ever seem...oh I don't know...lonely though sometimes?" she asked quietly as they pulled out of the driveway, his house illuminating with lawn lights and porch lanterns. "I mean, don't get me wrong, it's a lovely house, but...all by yourself...seems like a flat would seem more fitting."

The Doctor sighed, smiling at Clara. "Yeah, I know." he admitted. "I'd much rather prefer a flat than my own house, as bizarre that sounds." he replied, turning at a curb. "But I get out a lot, so I don't really mind I suppose."

Clara looked out the window, nodding her head slowly. "Have you ever been in a flat?"

The Doctor shrugged sheepishly. "No..." he grinned.

Clara smiled, laughing a bit. "You're not serious."

"I'm as serious as I'll ever be." he admitted.

Clara bit her bottom lip, watching the cars and street lights pass by. It just seemed so peculiar, that The Doctor had never experienced of living in a tiny little place. Clara loved it; having her own little place for herself. The kitchen and bedroom were of short walking distance from one another."Tell you what," she said. "Next Wednesday, instead of meeting up at a park or in your office, I'll have you come over to my place, and I can cook one of the things I actually know how to make without burning myself." she offered, The Doctor laughing softly in response.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"I'm positive."

"...okay then." he finally admitted to going along with her plan. Clara smirked. "Turn here?" he asked, and Clara nodded. After a few minutes of direction to her flat, he finally stopped at the right place. "So, this is what flats look like." he said in an amazed tone of voice that Clara couldn't exactly decipher, yet she laughed at him at how childish he sounded.

"Thanks for driving me home."

"No problem. See you next Wednesday?"

Clara smiled at him as she opened the car door slightly, then turning again to face The Doctor, hesitating a moment before kissing his cheek. "See you next Wednesday." she smiled at him as he blushed, getting out of the car and slamming the door shut.


	10. Chapter 10

_**Chapter Ten**_

He sat on the edge of her powder blue sofa, freely taking a look around Clara's flat. The walls were painted a subtle sea-foam green, fairy lights strung around her painted white window frames with the curtains drawn together. And since Clara was living alone, she mainly ate at the kitchen bar, leaving the intentional dining room for a miniature personal library. Two bookcases lined the walls parallel from one another, a microfiber recliner sitting in between. He stared at the small table next to it, a home of a small lamp and a tea mug for the time being. The place just seemed so, comforting and yet it was so tiny. Over the counter, Clara gave a small smile to herself as she saw him look around. "I know, the place is kind of...small, but I like it." she nodded slightly, taking a pan out of the oven.

The Doctor only nodded, his eyes focused on the coffee table in front of him. Underneath a book there was an open musician's catalog, so The Doctor carefully pulled it out from underneath the book and took a quick glance at it. On page 38, a Schoenhut 49 Key Pro Baby Grand Piano in red was circled with a blue pen. It looked pretty, until he looked at the price, which wasn't that attractive. He stared at it for a few seconds, then taking a notice into the math problems scrawled down the right-hand side of the page. Clara had been trying to save up for it, and she was almost halfway there.

"Okay, I think I did this right." she said, a minor assurance for herself.

"What did you make?" The Doctor asked curiously, carefully placing the catalog back underneath the book.

"I just stuck a pan of macaroni in the oven and practically drenched it in cheese." she laughed lightly. "Yeah, I'm not much of a chef than I am a pianist, or a writer, I guess." she admitted, fanning the pan with her oven mitt. The Doctor only smiled in reply, a hint of amusement in his grin. After a while, when Clara could actually hold the pan without getting herself burned, she placed it on the counter and motioned for The Doctor to sit. "So...unless you have an unforgivable phobia of sharing, or have an obsession with personal space, you won't mind just...eating out of the pan would you?" Clara asked, holding up two forks. The Doctor smiled.

"I honestly wouldn't mind." he assured her, sitting down on the bar stool. Clara smirked in reply, sliding a fork down the counter. He carefully picked it up and took a bite out of the cheese drenched pasta, nodding his head slightly. "Hey, it's not bad." he offered. Clara laughed.

"Is that supposed to be a compliment?" she asked, sitting down next to him.

"Well, by what I've heard from you, it sounds like you don't cook much."

"I don't." she admitted, twirling the fork in between her fingers. "But, when I do, I try." she nodded her head.

"...and to answer your question, yes, it's supposed to be a compliment."

Clara smiled up at him, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Good to know." she replied, violently stabbing the macaroni with her fork. She bit the fork in between her teeth, as if she was rating herself and her cooking skills. After a while, she nodded her head slowly. "Decent." she said, seeming satisfied. The Doctor smiled back at her, eating a little more before he stood up from his seat, walking over to her personal library. She eyed him curiously as she ate, him scanning the books carefully. His fingers brushed over the spines of each book, reading each title.

"Have you read all of these?" he asked.

"Every one." Clara smiled. She never put a book on there if it wasn't read word for word. He gave her a rather astonished and yet admiring smile. "What?" she laughed. "I guess...I just have a lot of free time, that's all." she shook it off like it was nothing. Yet The Doctor kept looking at her for a while, until he finally drew his attention to one particular book on the shelf. He carefully took it out, looking at its cover before carefully opening it.

"_I go to seek a great perhaps_." he cited, reading from the book's inside page.

Clara recognized the saying from anywhere. "That's...Looking for Alaska, John Green...right?" she asked him.

"Yeah...never read it."

"You should." Clara smiled. "_I go to seek a great perhaps_; those were the last words of François Rabelais, and, in the story, Pudge is inspired for this...great perhaps. He's kind of big on last words."

"His name is Pudge?" The Doctor asked.

"Well, his real name is Miles...you'll get it if you read it." Clara nodded, laughing.

The Doctor laughed back. "You wouldn't mind if I borrowed it, would you?"

"No, I wouldn't mind, go right on ahead." Clara replied. A sudden respite and loss for words seemed to appear between the two, smiles and slight nods of heads as a sign that they were still in the conversation. "Um..." Clara finally said. "We should...get to work on the manuscript." she finally said, hopping from her bar stool and falling on the couch. The Doctor hastily agreed out of slight shyness, grabbing the pan to take along with him. He placed it on the coffee table as Clara laughed. "Like it that much?"

The Doctor merely shrugged. He sat down next to her, maybe a little too close, and Clara did become very much aware of that, yet she didn't mind. "You know, Oswin should have some great last words of her own, to finish off her dialogue." he thought, looking at the ceiling.

"Such as...?" Clara asked.

He didn't answer. She then flipped through the pages of the manuscript and finally came to the last page, reading the final paragraphs.

_It was one of those things that just came by a whim, something that I wasn't intending on doing, something that I didn't even mean to do, yet it just felt so right. 'I'm taking down the force field. They've already begun they're attack, run.' I half-reprimanded, half-screamed at him. I suddenly knew what I was doing. Reality had hit me, and yet, I didn't find a need to cry. They weren't real tears, after all. 'Oswin,' he said softly, his voice barely a whisper. 'Are you-'_

_'I'm Oswin, Doctor. I fought the Daleks and I am human.' I reassured him, gritting my apparently nonexistent teeth. 'Remember me...' I said quietly, him giving me another look in the eye. I started back at him. I knew that he couldn't see me. I knew that everything, my hands, my red sneakers, hell, even the milk was just a cover that hid the metal parts of what I had become, what they had turned me into. 'Thank you.' he told me. And I knew that The Doctor was real, he was a monster and yet he cared about me, something that nobody ever had the time to do. And I knew that we could never really have a life together, I knew that he couldn't save me, and yet...he loved me. 'Run.' I repeated myself, desperately wanting him to leave, and not for my sake, but for his. He was the last face I would ever see, and giving me another look, he turned around and did as I said. He ran._

_It was at the point in which I smiled at myself, sitting back in my chair in satisfaction. I knew what I was doing, I knew that I was going to be blown up into a million pieces by the time this was over, and somehow, I was okay with that. _Clara finished, sighing to herself. "Yeah..." she finally said. "I need some sort of...ending line..." she trailed off, tapping the stack of papers with her fingers, thinking to herself. "...hey, how about this..." Clara said quietly, taking a pen from the coffee table and removing its plastic cap with her teeth, quickly scribbling down a rather morbid ending line. _So as I let the light of my death envelop the metal parts that had protected me for the past three hundred sixty-three days of my life, I said quietly to him, knowing that he would never hear me,  
_

Clara bit her lip, for last words were important. But then again, things best came to her when she just winged it. "...run...you clever boy...and remember." Clara finally came up with, scribbling the words down on the page, as if she were to lose them if she weren't to write any faster. She hastily gave her papers to The Doctor, apparently who had a mouth full of macaroni to deal with. Clara laughed at him. "How much are you eating?" she swatted him in the arm, grabbing her fork and eating some for herself. His mouth still full, he read what Clara had written down.

"It's really good." he mumbled.

"The pasta...or the book?" she asked.

He swallowed. "Both."

Clara nodded in approval. "Maybe I should cook more often." she suggested to herself, looking at her watch to see what time it was. It was nearly seven. "Oh gosh...Doctor...I kind of have to go to work...like...right now...I'm sorry." she admitted, standing up from the couch and smoothing out her skirt.

"It's alright. I can give you a ride if you want." he offered. "Would you mind if I stayed with you? I have nothing to do tonight anyways."

"Well, considering that I work at a restaurant and you ate like seventy-two percent of the pasta, I suppose that you won't be that occupied there." Clara laughed.

"Oh don't worry. I can read." he smiled at her.

"Really?" Clara smiled softly. "Thanks..." she said, grabbing her coat from the front closet. "Oh, yeah, would you mind getting my piano binder from my room? It's on the desk." she asked earnestly, The Doctor giving her a thumbs up in reply. He headed towards her room, opening the door to the sight of a millennial of vintage traveling posters. He stared at them all in surprise, cites like New York and Paris the ones that stood mainly self-explanatory, then paintings of New Orleans and Amsterdam that hung above her desk. The Doctor took a certain interest into a particular book on her bed, the title reading _101 Places to See_, what looked as though a pretty old book, the front image faded and the corners slightly bend and rippd. He carefully picked it up and opened the front cover, the first page holding in a leaf, the words _Property of Clara Oswald _written in a child-like handwriting, numbers of her age sprawled down the side of the page. He smiled to himself, closing the book and placing it back on her bed. He located her piano binder and grinned at all of the pictures on her wall, quietly walking out and turning off the light.

"I never knew that you wanted to travel," he said, handing Clara her binder.

"Oh, you saw all of the...?" Clara asked. The Doctor nodded. "Yeah." she grinned. "I've always wanted to go places, just...I never really put much thought into it I guess." she nodded, hugging the binder to her chest, sighing. "Someday...maybe." she said quietly. "Ready to go?" she asked.

He nodded. "Let's go." he said, walking with her out the door and silently closing it behind him.

* * *

**A/N: **...foreshadowing. It's a beautiful thing. ;)


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: **Apologies for not updating this weekend! Cute little chapter here for you all, Amy and Rose investigate a bit...

* * *

**_Chapter Eleven_**

She woke up to the sound of vibrations.

Clara's eyes refused to open as her brain turned on with a sudden jerk of surprise as her left hand slammed down on the surface of her bedside table, her hand blindly searching for her phone as her muscles had just started to wake up. Her hair was tousled and stuck in various places about her head, her blankets and pillows askew and lopsided around her bed. (Sometimes Clara wasn't the _most _peaceful sleeper, with trying to find the perfect sleeping position and all.) She groaned in torpidity as her eyes adjusted to the light of the screen, the number unfamiliar to Clara. "Hello?" she said tiredly, sitting up in her bed and raking her fingers until they became matted within the mess that was her neglected hair.

"Hi Clara, it's Amy!" her ebullient Scottish accent waking her up even more so. "I got you're number from John, I hope you don't mind."

"Oh, nah. It's alright." Clara replied, yawning as quietly as her mouth could manage.

Amy laughed softly. "Sorry, did I wake you up?" she asked.

Clara looked over to the clock on her bedside table and realized that it was around ten in the morning. "Eh, no...I'm awake..." she trailed off, her consciousness fading away and her eyes pleading to shut as she then regained her focus, snapping awake suddenly. "...sorry..." she admitted, giving in, giggling along with Amy.

"I was just wondering if you'd like to join me for lunch this afternoon." Amy asked politely. Clara coughed.

"Oh, really?" she asked, a bit surprised."Oh, um...sure, just, where?"

"There's that new sidewalk café down town, I think it's called the The Grove...? I really can't remember, but I can text you the address." she offered.

"Okay." Clara nodded her head.

"I'll see you in an hour?"

"Yeah, see you." Clara smiled, hanging up and replacing her phone neatly on the bedside table. She stared at the opposite wall, which apparently contained a poster of Istanbul, at which point she realized that she had agreed to lunch with Amy Williams. _Amy Williams. _Clara crashed down back onto the mattress of her bed, now looking up at the ordinary ceiling that happened to contain no poster of Istanbul, but a habitual dust layered ceiling fan. Clara smiled, raising an eyebrow, somewhat impressed with herself.

* * *

The Doctor snored loudly on his chaise lounge, he'd fallen asleep with a book laying carelessly on his stomach, for that's usually how he'd find himself awake in the mornings on a Saturday when his presence wasn't required at TARDIS. But this time, a certain colleague somehow made the difference of his Saturday rituals, a certain _blonde _colleauge. "John! Up, _now!_" Rose yelled across the room in a cheerleader's voice, her call echoing and bouncing off of the papered walls. John's eyes snapped opened immediately as he found himself falling from his current position on his couch. "Wha-?" he managed to sputter out before he landed face flat on the hard wood floor, his limbs certainly not hurt but placed in rather awkward positions. "H..." he sighed. "How did you get in?" he asked her tiredly as he heard the sizzle of his stove, unwilling to move from his place on the ground.

"Your brother's keys." she called nonchalantly from the kitchen. John groaned, getting up slowly and toddling towards her voice. His brother David was Rose's supposed 'significant other', and that meant that Rose was technically a part of his somewhat happy family, which technically gave her rights to barge in on his life whenever her heart contented. John found it surprising that Rose actually got up to make him breakfast, but then again she was considered a friendly sister figure to him. But then again, she always did nice things for him when she particularly _wanted _something.

Once in the kitchen, John lazily sat down on the bar stool of his counter, his posture slackening as she placed a plate of french toast in front of him, perfectly made to pristine conditions and all. John stared at her blankly. "What do you want?" he asked her simply.

Rose gave a sarcastic look, as if she were offended of such sudden interrogation. "Nothing! I just decided,_ hey_, John's maybe been working a little too hard and I think I should reward my boss with a well-deserved breakfast." she smiled at him as a sign of positivity, but John certainly wasn't seeing it. Yet Rose, being the persistent optimist that she was, continued to smile in hopes of him believing in her idiosyncratic alibi. John raised an eyebrow. Rose sighed. "Oh, come on, lighten up." she pouted a bit. "_Sometimes_, on the days when David's working, I need someone to talk to! About...life." she smiled, saying the word _life _in a wistful manner. John looked at her suspiciously, taking a bite out of his awaiting toast, which was surprisingly not bad. "So, with that said, let's do so over the coffee and toast that I made ever so beautifully, shall we?" she piped, leaning her elbows on the counter and staring at him with an over excessive interest. "So? How's work?"

"Fine."

"Any new stories?"

"Besides Clara's, no."

"Done anything interesting?"

"Not really."

"Watched any good movies?"

"Nah."

"Read the newspaper?"

"Not recently."

"Have you _done _anything of _us_e?_"_

"I don't know."

Rose quirked an eyebrow, wanting to sigh at him from her exasperation and unwillingness to cooperate. "Are you sure? _Nothing _at all?" Rose grinned. "Not even with Miss Clara...?"

John glared at her. "Is that what this is about?"

Rose smiled. "It can if you want it to be!" she chirped. "_Oh_, you know you like her."

"I don't like her, well, I mean, I _like _her, but not _like _her like her." he blushed.

Rose gasped. "How could you be missing out on such a sweet girl?" Rose cried. "She's pretty, she's smart, she's the _perfect _height for you-"

"Rose, I do _not _fancy Clara-"

"John, you look at her like Jack stares at margaritas."

He sputtered. "I do not!"

Rose smiled deliberately. "You know you do."

He raised his index finger as if to object even more so, then realizing that, well, maybe Rose was right. And when she saw the look of defeat on his face, she clapped her hands and pointed at him in triumph, the same reaction she would've used if she had just hit him in the face with a dodge ball. "_Ha!_ I knew it!"

"Rose-"

"_You_ fancy her."

"Rose-!"

"You need to ask her out on a date." she shook her head.

"And she would say _no_." John turned down the offer.

"She sure as hell would say _yes!_" Rose chirped, a wide smile displayed on her face. "God, she can _blush_ when we talk about you-"

"Blush?"

"Yeah, you know that thing that happens when you _really like _somebody?" she asked. John just looked confused. "...caused by the stimulus of discomposure and performed by the sympathetic nervous system?" she recited hopelessly, for scientifically speaking seemed like the only type of "speaking" he could understand. Rose sighed. "Listen, John, if you really like her, you'd _tell _her by now."

John looked down sheepishly. "But I'm just not...good at those kinds of things."

"Well, that's why I'm here!"

John looked up at her suspiciously. "How many cups of coffee have you had?" he asked her out of the blue, for Rose had her mornings when she tended to act over excessively hyper due to the superfluity of caffeine. Rose shrugged.

"I dunno? Two, maybe more. I'm not counting."

* * *

"So, what's going on with you and John?" Amy asked at an intentional moment of silence in their conversation. Clara almost spit out her decaf. "What?" she asked all of a sudden.

"...I'm...talking about the book." Amy smiled knowingly. That was a lie.

"Oh..." Clara sighed, a bit relieved. "Yeah, it's going well, I suppose."

Yet Amy had already pushed aside any conversational book-dealing matters. "...were you suggesting at something else?"

Clara shook her head too soon. "Oh, no."

"I think you were."

"No...I wasn't."

Amy smiled. "Clara...are you and John...?"

"...no."

"You hesitated."

Clara sighed. "Amy...I don't know!" she smiled at her in slight defeat. "Maybe I do, maybe I like him, I just...don't really know what 'liking someone' feels like."

"Well..." Amy said. "What do you _think _it feels like?"

"It feels...different."

Amy smiled sympathetically. "Clara, it's alright, it's not...scary to fall in love, as _cliché _as it sounds." she laughed. Clara smiled. "John...as much of an idiot he can be, he needs someone to talk to sometimes, and it's not me, it's not...Rose, I don't have a definite answer. It might be you, you know." she admitted, smiling warmly. Clara bite her lip.

"I just don't think he'd agree with me on that one Amy."

Amy smiled, raising her eyebrow. "Oh, the things that can surprise you."


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: This chapter is rather...fluffy I should say. I would personally like to give some credit to one of my previous English teachers, only because they were fantastic at explaining. So, for when you don't recognize a few terms that I mention in this chapter, I can explain somewhat.**

**Kill your darlings - (Lol I know, morbid...) This refers to the elimination of an author's favorite elements in a story. **

**Dead words - (I know, morbid.) Words such as _things, __stuff,_ and _nice_. You get the point. I use them all the time.  
**

**Anyways, I'd like to thank everyone who has read and reviewed so far! It means so much to me. You all are fabulous!**

* * *

_**Chapter Twelve**_

One week later, Clara had woken up with a deafening posture and a weak bearing of herself, feeling heavily congested and more or less disgusting; so it wasn't obscure that she was clearly sick. The Kleenex box of tissues had now become her new best friend. Clara moaned in exasperation, for she hated having to be ill. Clara was one to keep herself rather preoccupied at all necessary times, and getting herself into an everlasting headache and feeling disgustingly congested was the principal drain of her energy. And what made her feel even more disappointed was that it was a Wednesday. Yes, Wednesday had rolled around yet again, and this time Clara couldn't even get up from her sofa. She had tried to pass the time with some reading, only to the disadvantage of her eyes watering every other second from the congestion. Clara grunted in frustration as she wiped her eyes with her blanket, almost wanting to throw the book across the room. So, then realizing that she could only perform two of her five senses, she decided to call The Doctor to inform him of her absence.

"Hey Clara, are you coming?" he asked without her getting the chance to say hello.

Clara bit her lip. "I'm...I'm sorry Doctor, I can't today. I'm sick." she shook her head, twirling a piece of hair around her finger nervously.

There was a slight pause. "Are you alright? Do you need anything?"

"No, Doctor. I'm fine, really. I just need some rest." she sighed. "I really hate doing nothing, though." she complained playfully, her voice clearly sounding weak.

"Well to don't sound too well, maybe I should come over-"

"No, please. I don't want to get you sick-" she protested, her words doing little use to its entire ideal of denial.

"No! I'll be alright Clara, I'm sure of it. See you!" he interrupted, and with that, he hung up. Clara frowned at bit in perplexity, staring at her phone blankly before hesitantly placing it beside her. She giggled a bit, smiling to herself, laying back down on the assortment of pillows propped up for her convenience. It would be nice to have someone over, somebody to talk to; and maybe that's just what she needed.

And as she suspected, he rang her doorbell precisely twenty-two minutes later, Clara resentfully having to get up herself and toddle over to open it to allow him inside. He smiled at her brightly, wanting to wave but to the disadvantage of his hands being full with grocery bags. Clara eyed them suspiciously, her left hand on the door frame as she attempted to smile back with the little energy she had. "Hi Doctor, listen, you really didn't have to do any of this." she claimed.

"Well, I didn't want you to be lonely on a day like this, and besides, I brought ice cream." he teased, Clara giggling. "We don't have to work today, I promise. We can just talk, and eat, and watch movies, and then repeat." Clara finally found a reason to smile for once in a few days, slightly nodding her head in reply. "..okay." She finally let him come in, quickly apologizing for her laziness to pick up for herself, for the last few days she had felt like a disoriented slug. She immediately crashed herself down on the sofa yet again, wrapping the blankets around her tiny physique and watching him carefully as he placed everything on her kitchen counter, pulling things out one by one. "Cough drops, Tylenol, aspirin, the list goes on and on-_ooh_ look Instant Noodles!" he said excitedly, holding up the package for her to see, Clara smiling in reply. Basically, he just did the groceries for her. She felt nice that someone had come to give her a bit of company for the day, or that someone even _cared _about her in the first place. "Doctor...you don't need to cook for me, honestly." she grinned, shaking her head.

"Well, let's just consider this my compensation to you for cooking for _me_." he said, trying to open the pack of noodles, having a rather difficult time managing its somewhat invincible plastic wrapping. "Even though Instant Noodles is nowhere near your cooking." he added sheepishly, and to his surprise, finally managed to tear apart the packaging. "Okay...Clara where do you keep the pans?" he asked, looking around as if he seemed clearly lost.

"Beside the dishwasher." she clarified. It was rather entertaining seeing The Doctor cook, for it certainly didn't seem as though he did it often. He stumbled around the kitchen, looking for certain bowls and such, occasionally pulling something out of her cupboard to smell it, as if he didn't know what saltine crackers were until then. She watched him place the ice cream in her freezer and the medicine in the proper cabinets, turning on the stove after a few minutes worth of trying. "Ow!" he cried as the got slightly burnt by the hot water, sucking on his thumb as Clara laughed at how amusingly clumsy he could be. "Is it that difficult to make a bowl of Instant Noodles?" Clara teased. It seemed like a challenge to him, occasionally poking the contents of the pot with a wooden spoon. And Clara couldn't really do anything but stifle her laughs. "Doctor...I know that you didn't want me talking about work...but you know how editors tend to take out the book's most favored information of the author?" she paused slightly, adopting a look of slight distaste at the fact that she sounded like a student asking something from her teacher. "Why...why don't you do that?"

He stopped to consider it for a moment. "You know the term _kill your darlings?_"

"...yes."

"I hate that rule."

"Why?"

"_Because _Clara Oswald, haven't you realized? The stories I like to publish are stories that I think are insane. I only add to them, not take away for the purpose of it making it sound anything ordinary. And besides, why would you want to kill your darlings?" he gave her a slight look of puzzlement. "If that's what you like the most in your book, then it deserves to stay there." he stated, poking the air with the wooden spoon for emphasis.

Clara nodded her head slowly, for it made sense enough. "So, like the absurdness of soufflés?"

"Exactly like the absurdness of soufflés."

Clara never exactly understood the term _to kill your darlings, _she always found it to be rather confusing, and hell, she was sure that others could object to her opinions, and she didn't mind. "Opinion on figurative language?"

"Oh, love it."

She smiled. "I thought so." she thought for a moment. "Do you have a tendency to use dead words?"

"Those kinds of things are stuff that aren't very nice."

Clara laughed. "I see them as words that are terrible at describing, but they allow leeway that gives you possibilities."

"Fabulous way of putting it, Miss Oswald."

"If I do say so myself, Mr. Smith." she raised an eyebrow.

After many rather amusing minutes of watching The Doctor attempt to cook, he finally set a tray on her lap, a small bowl of ramen noodles and a glass of water sitting patiently, along with a small medicine cup with a Tylenol pill. She took her fork and ate it hungrily, The Doctor looking at her a bit sheepishly off in the corner of the room, as if he had no where else to go. "So...? What do you think?" he asked. Clara smiled, her eyes seeming almost apologetic. "If only I could taste it," she admitted, laughing lightly. "But I bet it tastes lovely." she smiled, at which point he smiled back. She patted the seat next to her, The Doctor accepting her invitation to sit down, Clara grabbing her television remote and flipping through channels for something decent to watch. "I usually don't even watch television, so it's kind of weird to slow things down a bit, you know?"she shook her head in astonishment. The Doctor only nodded his head. "Well anyways," she continued. "Thank you for making me lunch, I certainly wouldn't have don't it myself," she laughed lightly, a fork in one hand and the remote in another, flipping through the channels that seemed uninteresting. "Hell, I could kiss you right now if I weren't so sick." she stuck her tongue out at him playfully. His face seemed to blush a slight red.

"I have a few DVDs we could try watching," she suggested. "A few Nicholas Sparks, nah you wouldn't like that, I own a few Disney animations, a few old movies too, Back to the Future-" she stopped mid-sentence, the look he was giving her clearly giving away his consent to the idea. "...alright then," she smiled, setting down the tray beside her and toddling towards her shelf of DVD cases, carefully scanning the row of discs before sliding out the right one, delicately placing it into the DVD player. She returned back to her seat and continued eating as the movie began, the voices from the television and the slurping of her ramen noodles the only noises she could hear.

Clara was a fast eater when it came to her infinite sickness fatigue, so after a few minutes she eventually placed the tray on the table beside her, wrapping the white blanket around her shoulders. She looked at The Doctor for a few moments, wondering how with everything he did he somehow had time for her, it just seemed as though he always had time for her. It didn't make sense. She smiled to herself, eventually laying her head down on his lap, sighing. "Thank you for this." she muttered.

"You're welcome." he smiled back, hesitating before tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. He continued to play with her hair quietly, and Clara didn't mind. It was nice for once to not really worry about anything, just watching sci-fi with the girl he technically fancied, even though he started having thoughts of the possibilities that she might fancy him back. Though it wasn't exactly a romantic kind of relationship, it was the type of relationship in which you loved somebody because they're best friends together, and that's all that The Doctor really wanted. He wanted a friend that he knew would stay. It felt different.

It felt unusual.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: This chapter includes a poem written by Edgar Allan Poe, all rights go to him for his lovely writing! :D**

* * *

**_Chapter Thirteen_**

Needless to say, as the days passed by, Rose's words kept playing back like a disoriented record player inside of his brain, which was the most annoying yet persisting thing he had to put up with. _"Oh, you know you like her." _Rose had said, giving him that small little quirky grin whenever she had proven him wrong. He wanted to ask her, of course he did, he just didn't know how without sounding too demanding or slightly peculiar. Demanding and slightly peculiar was his thing.

She came into his office two Wednesdays later, wearing a warm argyle sweater vest that framed her tiny physique, her hair pulled into a tiny bun as she sat down on his office couch, smoothing out her skirt as he popped up his question. "Feeling any better?" he asked. Clara nodded her head in reply, scratching the back of her neck awkwardly. "Yeah, much better." she smiled, although it was an unconvincing grin, laying down and tucking the throw pillow underneath her head. "Just..." she paused to yawn. "...tired." she finished. She looked and sounded better, but the way she spoke seemed almost perturbed.

"Too tired to work?" The Doctor asked. She looked uneasy, and he didn't know why.

"Maybe, I dunno." she stuck her tongue out at him as she looked out the opposite window, watching the rain drops fall onto the glass, almost demanding themselves to be let in. It had been pouring for the last few days, thunderstorms and lightning strikes roaring amongst the streets. She looked stiff.

"Clara, are you okay?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I'm fine." She seemed to be assuring herself more than him.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm alright, really Doctor." she closed her eyes. "Can you...read to me?" she asked as if she was a little girl again, staring at him sitting down at his desk. He smiled at her for a moment, admiring her child-like manner of being rather sleepy. And suddenly, the thunder roared, causing Clara to wince, hiding her face in her shoulder, sighing in exasperation at how terrifying these storms could make her feel. She didn't know why those things made her frightened, they had been for a while. The Doctor stood up to close the curtain, then sitting down on the couch next to her as she curled up as if to protect herself. In those few seconds, she looked so scared, as if the storm were to kill her."Clara-" he started.

_"Nothing's _wrong with me..." she told him sternly.

"Are you...scared of thunderstorms?" he asked softly.

Clara sighed again, her face still hidden. She didn't want to answer him. "No." she told him firmly, her persuasion only to be weakened by a piercing rumble of thunder, Clara screaming into the air. She panted quietly, for her words didn't convince him. "...I had this phobia when I was five, like...it wasn't even normal." she gulped, a flash of lighting making the room turn white, like the flash of a camera. Clara only hid her face in her hands. "My mum used to always help me through it, which...made me feel better after a while, but after she died..." she trailed off, as if she was taking in her words. "...I-I dunno..." she shook her head, for at that moment she felt like a complete idiot, especially acting like a baby in front of him. "Sorry..." she said after a lingering respite, blinking away her tears, trying to get up, but The Doctor easing her back to lay down. She lay down on his couch, covering her face with her hands, still trying to blink back her tears, for she didn't know what made her do it, but she felt as if she could in front of him. The thunder cried out in terror, echoing in the walls of the room, Clara screaming in fear.

Her mother had helped her through so much of her life, she was the one who helped her stand up, she was the only one who could really make her smile, she was the only one who really knew her, and yet she knew that she wouldn't be able to see her again. "I'm sorry..." she said weakly, crying. "I just...I miss her so much..." her voice was breaking apart. It was all happening as if she were falling from a skyscraper, slowly, and then the impact of the ground was what made everything inside of her pour out like blood.

She had never acted like this, not even in front of Nina; she always had a strong enough mind to keep it all in, and yet this was when it had decided for her thoughts to bleed through her skin. Nina had never understood how _terrible _it felt for a mother to die, for she had never lost anyone herself, and it was the same thing for all of her other friends. They didn't have their seventeenth year lived out as a depression, they didn't have to hug a grave for seven years, they didn't know anything. Maybe that's why she had decided to cry then and there, maybe it was because of him, John, maybe it was because he had fallen from a higher place, making the impact even harder to stand up to. He had known what it was like to lose the ones to read to you at night, he had lost both.

"Hey," he said quietly, rubbing her back gently. "It's alright," he said softly, for he didn't try to stop her crying, he just wanted to know that he was there. Crying wasn't a torture, it was a way to deal with it, and he knew what torture felt like. He stayed like that for a moment, gently rubbing her back, listening to the sound of her cries and the sound of the rain, keeping himself quiet. Sometimes, you needed to cry. Clara gasped for air, turning to lay down on her back, panting. "Oh God, you _did not _have to deal with me acting like a baby, I'm-" she stopped to sigh, curling up on the opposite side of the couch. "I'm sorry..." she said quietly, and her eyes look scared. She looked alone, and frightened, as if no one could come near her acting like such a child.

"Clara," he said her name slowly, a roar of thunder making her flinch. She didn't hesitate when she fell into his arms, him hugging her quietly, her arms around his neck. At that moment, she just felt _safe_, an unfamiliar feeling, as if she had never felt safe in a long time. She sighed quietly. The Doctor pulled away to look at her, her eyes red. He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, wiping her tears with his thumb. "You're okay, Clara." he assured her, hesitating before bringing his lips to hers. She took it as a surprise, for she had never kissed a boy, and yet she closed her eyes and slowly kissed him back. She was the one to pull away first, for she didn't know what she was doing, but she smiled weakly and leaned her forehead on his, staring at him for a few moments. "...can I read to you instead?" she laughed softly, still scared but overall, okay.

"Always." he answered, kissing her forehead, grabbing a book from the couch side table and scanning through it, and needless to say he had never been much one for poetry, and yet Amy had still giving him a book full of just that, converting him to one who read poetry on a daily basis. "Your choice." he announced, handing her the book, to which it didn't take her long to find one that caught her attention. She lay her head down on his lap, holding the book above her so she could read. "Annabel Lee, Edgar Allan Poe." she recited, always a lovely piece of writing.

"_It was many and many a year ago,_

_ In a kingdom by the sea,_

_That a maiden there lived whom you may know_

_ By the name of Annabel Lee;_

_And this maiden she lived with no other thought_

_ Than to love and be loved by me._

_I was a child and she was a child,_

_ In this kingdom by the sea,_

_But we loved with a love that was more than love—_

_ I and my Annabel Lee—_

_With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven_

_ Coveted her and me._

_And this was the reason that, long ago,_

_ In this kingdom by the sea,_

_A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling_

_ My beautiful Annabel Lee;_

_So that her highborn kinsmen came_

_ And bore her away from me,_

_To shut her up in a sepulchre_

_ In this kingdom by the sea._

_The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,_

_ Went envying her and me—_

_Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,_

_ In this kingdom by the sea)_

_That the wind came out of the cloud by night,_

_ Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee._

_But our love it was stronger by far than the love_

_ Of those who were older than we—_

_ Of many far wiser than we—_

_And neither the angels in Heaven above_

_ Nor the demons down under the sea_

_Can ever dissever my soul from the soul_

_ Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;_

_For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams_

_ Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;_

_And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes_

_ Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;_

_And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side_

_ Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,_

_ In her sepulchre there by the sea—_

_ In her tomb by the sounding sea."_

Clara shut the book and rested atop her stomach, folding her hands and looking up at the ceiling. "You know, when I was a child I used to always wonder at what caused the death of Annabel Lee." she said. "I never realized how envious people could be." she spoke quietly. "Maybe I am envious myself, of people who have a mum whom they can just...talk to on the phone." she mumbled, turning on her side, hugging the book to her chest. "But...I always have Nina, and Amy, and Rose, and you." she smiled up at him. "I just wish that I could tell my mum the things that I never got the chance to say."

He nodded his head. "Yeah, me too." he muttered, looking at the wall opposite of him. "...me too."


End file.
